But today I walked past a chirping flock of sparrows and it fell silent as a wave of nausea swept across me and suddenly the earth gave way beneath my feet and I remembered once more that beneath Tainaron is nothing but a crust, as insubstantial as one night"s ice.
Proof Copy The Thirteenth Letter The rapist panted in my pursuit, reducing the distance between us with horrifying speed. Then I remembered that what I was seeing was a dream and that I therefore had an opportunity: with all my strength, I forced my feet to leave the ground, and as the murderer"s filthy paw fumbled for my ankle, it slipped beyond his grasp and past the highest branches.
My unbelief had saved me, but the poor creature who believes that everything is true is the victim of his dreams.
Today I remembered that many years many grace-filled years ago, I should say, for that is what they have been we were walking up a street between two churches, and you said: "The soul is what is visible." Do you remember?
When I happened to look in the mirror a moment ago, you said it, from a long way off, but as clearly as you did then. I seldom look in the mirror, but always there is someone there who gives me my eyes. And the root of my nose is bluish; a line has inscribed itself at the corner of my mouth like a drypoint groove. But this is no proof copy, and the acid of everyday life corrodes, prepares that which is the soul.
Once you said, moaning: "I would love you even if you were someone else."
You are crazy! How the word rea.s.sured me, how calm it made me.
But yesterday morning I stood in front of a large department store where I planned to go and buy clothes, and the sun had just risen behind the roofs of Tainaron. I came to a halt because I happened to glance at my legs, for no particular reason; and from them grew two shadow-trees, and both of us were whole, I and the other.
Oh, I have something wider than a prairie, wider than Oceanos. I do not know where to put it, to whom to present it. I cannot show it; I cannot use it. It is too wide for this city; one life is too small for it. No one needs it, but today it has me flying and singing.
Sand The Fourteenth Letter The new day dawned low and cloudy. In my melancholy, I set out for a walk alone for Longhorn, after all, has his work, of which I know almost nothing; but I a.s.sume it is some kind of business activity.
I wanted to see something I had not seen before, and for that reason I set out toward the eastern part of the city, although I well remembered that Longhorn had urged me to stay away from those parts. When I asked why, he merely said that it was not safe to go there alone.
But it was midday, after all, and I was walking along a broad esplanade bordered on both sides by high poplars which were still green. Looked at from a distance, they recall the crowns of some other tree, standing on their bases. I walked past the theatre, on whose eaves snouty caryatids slumber; that building has a particular charm. I came to a cross-street full of expensive specialist shops and pretty little cafes. I myself have often sat at their clean tables, but now I did not stop. I was in a hurry, as if on my way to some agreed meeting.
Now I came to streets which were unfamiliar. I could no longer see business plaques or inventively decorated shop windows. The buildings became more closed, dilapidated and lower. I sank into melancholy, and for a while I went on hardly glancing around me, but the unevenness of the gravel under my heels startled me. Now I realised that the streets in this part of the city were not paved, or even asphalted. They were deeply rutted, in an almost unpa.s.sable condition, but neither did there seem to be any kind of traffic any longer in these parts. Pavements, too, had been left unbuilt, and between the buildings there meandered indistinct lanes. After a few steps I was forced to ask myself: were they buildings? For is it not the case that the buildings in which we live and our friends live have straight and solid walls? Are their roofs not covered in slates or tin and are their windows not made of gla.s.s?
As I walked, I remembered entrances and heavy front doors whose handles were of bra.s.s, gutters that drummed in the rain, and chimneys and chimney-pipes which, seen from an attic window, looked like solitary people. And behind the window panes? There should have been the glimmer of white curtains, eyes, cats and the dim perspectives of the life of strange rooms...
But there was nothing of the sort to be seen. The habitations past which I walked were lacking in all the characteristics of proper dwellings. First of all, there were no straight lines. Everything curved and twisted, meandered without direction, without clear corners. The dwellings rose from the earth, earth-coloured, made of clay and loam. They had indefinitely shaped openings in place of windows and doors. Where were the columns and capitals which one could admire in almost every square in the centre of the city? Where was the rosy golden glow of the cupolas, and the window recesses with their rich mosaic patterns? The wall-niche and the sandstone shapes that beckoned to them? The slender roof-groins and the pointed arches? The pilastered galleries and the atriums with their flowering trees?
I realised that there were two Tainarons, or perhaps even more, who knows...This was a Tainaron lacking in everything that is called culture, everything which joy and hope, prosperity and ambition, can build and embellish on Earth.
I cannot say I liked it.
I walked faster than before. My intention was now to traverse this obscure and peripheral part of the city as quickly as possible and spend a moment at the sandy beach of which I had heard. After that I decided to return to the centre of the city via the northern causeway, although it is long and dull.
The light increased, and from somewhere the shimmer of water was reflected over the nests, cells and systems of caves that were hollowed out of the sand and the rock. From in front of me I heard an incessant rustling and scouring, as if the earth were being swept with a large brush; but there was nothing to be seen. A couple of times I heard, from behind a stony hillock, the sound of dragging and something buzzing; I was certain that a lizard or reptile was hiding among the stones. I saw a couple of pa.s.sers-by; they were small and fragile, dragonfly-like creatures. The last dwellings I pa.s.sed were just low mounds and holes. They would offer shelter only to the most insignificant and modest beings, and they soon sank and merged into the fine, golden sand, which was certainly beautiful to look at, although it made my steps heavy and insinuated its way into my shoes and even into my mouth, making me thirsty.
Nevertheless, I decided to walk a few steps further, although I had already admitted to myself that my trip was not exactly fun. The sand spread before me in gently swelling dunes. I could no longer see any signs of the city around me. The sand radiated the same simple severity as the snow-fields at home, the allure of inviolability, dreams and emptiness.
As I gazed at one particular sandbank, its shape reminded me of a sledging slope which, long ago, rose in the courtyard of my childhood home. I began to be very tired, and I felt like sprawling for a moment in its softness. Suddenly I was so sleepy that my thoughts became confused: what if I freeze?
I took a couple of steps toward the ridge, and at the same time my attention fastened on some insignificant protuberances that were at first hardly distinguishable from the surrounding sandy plain. When I went nearer, I saw earthworks of various sizes, all of them in the form of circles, forming concentric rings. At their centre was a conical pit, symmetrical and apparently purposebuilt, for wind or water could not possibly have built such exact forms. Those hollows reminded me of something...Long ago, I must have seen something similar; but it was quite painful that I could not bring to mind where it had happened.
Behind the sandbank I saw yet another earthwork, larger than all the others. I climbed up to its ridge and the sand immediately began to move under my feet. Small avalanches fell down the walls of the pit here and there, soundless falls and swifter torrents, making a rustling sound as if a woman in evening dress were rushing, complete with train, through a thicket.
It was not until a moment later that I noticed that there was a hole deeper in the pit. At first it looked infinitesimally small, but that could not be the case, for in fact I was still so far from it that it could well be wider than the circ.u.mference of my head. It looked immeasurably deep. The grains of sand that were displaced by the heels of my shoes as soon as I moved in the slightest fell over its fragile edges. I stood where I was insofar as there was a definite place to stand, for something was continually happening on the ridge of the earthworks, so I did not have a firm foothold yes, I stood where I was, and I could not take my eyes off that round hole. At first I felt that the movement I thought I noticed came from the shadow of my eyelashes, for my eyelids were fluttering. Then I saw it quite clearly, without any doubt: something was moving in the hole, very deep beneath the sand; and then the walls of the pit, too, began to undulate.
At that moment I believe I executed a very strange and, in relation to my strength, supernatural leap, for my foothold was finally giving way and I felt myself slipping with the sand toward the grave-dark hole.
On no account did I climb; I made a half-vault backward, for the next moment I found myself behind the earthwork, looking at the panicles of a tussock of gra.s.s, which moved lightly at the level of my eyes. I turned my head so that I now saw nothing but sand: dim quartz granules, deep red grains of granite, crushed snail sh.e.l.ls. The clouds had dispersed; the sun shone on the shadowless sand. I felt as if I had never looked at anything so closely, because the gold of a particular vein of mica shone into my pupil, red as the embers of a fire.
I had thrown myself on the sand through the sheer weakness of fear, for I had been able to glimpse how some kind of point, a claw covered in fur or p.r.i.c.kles, or perhaps a tooth, had flitted past the edge of the hole, but had immediately disappeared back into the darkness.
Later I got up and my feet took me back, but I do not remember the road; and it is of no importance. I have not yet met Longhorn, and I have no intention of telling him what happened today.
At this moment I could be hollow, as empty as the ants from which ant-lion grubs suck the innards and vital fluids. In writing this, I am a little ashamed, as if I wanted to disturb you by telling you this; but it is true, after all.
I examine my nails and the skin on the backs of my hands closely, knowing that they could be among the fragile and dry skins that are thrown over the ridge of the earthworks and which crumble to dust and disappear among the sand.
But the wind! It rises and distributes both dust and sand over the towers of Tainaron, and the dunes shift once more some distance toward the interior. From a high hillock a grating sound is heard, and I see the Ferris wheel spinning in the wind, but guess that its cogwheels, too, are now grinding sand from the sh.o.r.e. When I think about the buzzing, the sea of air that undulates around the antennae and the towers and which sets the papers in the gutter dancing, I am no longer at all afraid. Its reinvigorating breath pa.s.ses through personal happiness and unhappiness, and they are no more than a couple of steps in the great dance.
But have I not just returned from a beach where I have no memory of water? Was it really the case that I did not even glance northward, across the expanse of Oceanos, but that the waves and details of the sand swallowed all my attention, just as they will one day cover the city of Tainaron? The skuas must have shrieked then, too, and the waves roared, but I, absentminded, saw nothing but the sand and the claw....
White Noise The Fifteenth Letter Sometimes, when I find myself in the street"s densest throng, I am surrounded by such a confusion of voices that I feel like covering my ears with my hands. Someone croaks; someone else drums; from a third pa.s.ser-by come snapping sounds that combine to make a kind of monotonous music. And what about the strange bellowing or shrill cries that from time to time pierce the s.p.a.ces between the houses and rebound from one wall to the other. I understand them as little as I understand the screaming of birds, the silence of fish.
The state of confusion in which I often move in this city makes me remember and long for something. I remember the radio, whose place was on a low rosewood shelf in the bay window. I often sat on the floor in front of the radio for quite long times and listened.
But that happened only when I was able to be alone in the room. When the other children came to listen to the radio, I found other things to do, for I did not care for storytime, or for quizzes or sports commentaries. Why, then, did I dawdle, turning the k.n.o.bs of the radio for so long that my mother often lost her temper and told me to stop?
Beside the radio there grew, in a large earthenware pot, a crown of thorns, and as I listened I liked to finger its st.u.r.dy p.r.i.c.kles; they were shiny and amazingly sharp, as hard as bone.
"That"s nothing but noise," said my older brother, stepping into the room. "Let me try."
And he bent over the receiver and adjusted the vertical pointer to a station that broadcast music or sports commentaries or news.
"Is this what you wanted to listen to?" my brother asked, and out of politeness toward my brother, or rather in order to be left in peace the more quickly, I answered: "Yes, this is it."
But as soon as my brother had gone, I turned back to the dimly glowing pointer board and ran the red line through all the cities of Europe. I heard them murmur and sing, but their invitation did not move me. Although I did not understand their distant languages, I knew that they said the same things as in our own language, and at that time I doubted whether that could be used to say anything really important.
For precisely that reason, I did not pause at any of the big cities, but adjusted the pointer to the empty s.p.a.ce between the radio stations, where no one was sending anything. To these regions, which were as deserted and roadless as the s.p.a.ces between stars, I returned again and again. As I wandered through their integrity, I felt the happiness of an explorer, and I was bewitched by the ceaseless humming that rose like vapour from their nameless seas. It was secreted from the receiver as a radiation of the same strength, almost unchanging in wavelength, which brought to mind honey and the homes of thousands of b.u.mblebees. It swayed before me like a curtain, like dancing dust; it was ceaseless happening, but nothing changed in it.
So I wandered through the forest, peaceful and alone. The language I listened to was so full of meaning that once I even felt my intestines pausing in their work in order to understand better. If I had been asked then, "But what does it mean?", I should not have replied. For I could not have said anything but: "It means everything," and even to my own ears such an answer would have seemed senseless.
But that was precisely how it was. The roar that lured me was the chimera of all languages and all voices.
Once I heard the same storm rising elsewhere. I had a fever, and I was standing in line in the school playground. Faintness made me black out and dizziness thrust me to the ground. But I did not feel myself hit the gravel, for in my eyes and my blood there rose, roaring, such a plenitude and suction of voices that I dived into it head-first as if into the sea, and there, too, "everything" lived.
But from time to time as I listened to the noise of the radio, I could distinguish individual voices and call them to me. I did not always succeed, but sometimes all I needed to do was listen, and a whisper or a note would detach itself from the density of the cloud of voices and float in the foreground. But nothing I heard was unambiguous, so that often I wanted to tear the roaring aside as if it were a stage-curtain. But that, of course, was impossible: the voices were born and lived only in the fog, and if it lifted, "everything" disappeared immediately into a deathly silence.
But one day I could hear the seagulls shrieking above the reef, and on another the trains dashed forward. It happened very far away, and I admit I was a little afraid.
Everything floated and changed; something was always happening. I could exert only the tiniest influence on what was born and died behind the calm fabric that covered the radio loudspeaker. Some events were terrible: cities destroyed by earthquakes, a.s.sa.s.sinations, collapsing stars. One eruption sparked another, the echo of ceaseless explosions never seemed to weaken. It was as if one were hearing, from afar, the birth of matter itself.
Then my fingers reached out once more for the spine of the cactus and tightly pressed its sharpest point, in extent warmer than a nail, living, steady.
Once I remembered, in front of the receiver, that I had a heart: that whatever I did, that heart beat and beat, ceaselessly. And as if in answer, through the tempest, I heard the beats of another heart, dull, even and self-a.s.sured. Then I found myself looking at the fabric that hid the loudspeaker behind it, but it did not sigh like my own chest; it did not even quiver.
Or I remembered the name I had once been given, and at the same time I was called by that name, but from a place so far off that I could never have reached there, even if I had set off immediately.
And when the dishes clattered in the kitchen, I was already sitting at table like the others.
The Mimic The Sixteenth Letter In Tainaron I have a balcony where I sometimes sit and bask when the sun shines and I have no reason to go into the city. For you it is autumn, but for us it is still high summer.
Yesterday the dazzle closed my eyelids and set fiery landsca pes rolling beneath them. There was a book on my lap, but I did not turn its pages. Here in the courtyard grows a great tree whose name I do not know, and the blaze of the sun was extinguished only when it was snared by the branches.
Look! At that moment I saw below me a group of stones. They were largish cobblestones, grey ones, dappled and reddish ones, granite or possibly gneiss. The centre of the courtyard was paved with them, and they were beautiful stones; but that was not why I was looking at them. It seemed to me that new stones had been brought to the courtyard and that some kind of a hillock had been built, which had certainly not been there before.
Just as this little riddle was beginning to trouble me, Longhorn stepped on to my balcony.
"Look under the tree," I said to him. "Do you understand why a hill like that has been built there?"
He looked, and began to smile if the slow withdrawal of his jaws to the side of his face can be called a smile I never get used to it.
"Perhaps you find it amusing," I said, a little irritated, "that all sorts of obstacles are built on the thoroughfares; I myself can see no sense in it."
When I glanced at the pile of stones again, I was downhearted, for I thought it began to look like a small grave.
"Do not worry," said Longhorn rea.s.suringly, resting his light forelimb on my shoulder. "I see you do not yet know the Mimic. If you wish, I will introduce him to you."
"Who is he?" I asked, and my mood was cheerless, even though the day was bright and autumn was still far off.
"It is him you are looking at," Longhorn said amiably.
I did not blink, but nevertheless something happened in my eyes, for now I could see that what was in the courtyard in the shade of the tree was no pile of stones but a living creature, motionless, whose back was covered in a reddish-grey, lumpy carapace.
I wanted to ask something, but Longhorn made a gesture with his hand. He has, you see, a habit of moving wonderfully gracefully and elegantly, and his movement silenced me indisputably.
"Now look," he ordered, and there was no longer anything or anyone in the shade of the tree. But a round knoll had appeared on the strip of lawn beside the wall, and it, too, was as green as new gra.s.s.
"Is it...?" I began.
"Yes, he is quick," Longhorn acceded.
"I do not understand," I complained. "Is he someone, then? Who is he?"
"My dear," Longhorn said, and looked at me, waving the extensions of his antennae, "do you believe that the Mimic could have a personality? Today he is one thing, tomorrow another. Wherever he is, that is what he is stone a moment ago, now the summer"s gra.s.s. Who knows what form he will take tomorrow. But come, let us go; I shall introduce you to one another."
"No," I said, feeling an obscure rage. "I do not wish to. I have no intention of making the acquaintance of such a person. It certainly takes all sorts..."
"Really," said Longhorn, without showing any kind of sympathy, in fact teasingly. "So you want everyone to be someone. You want what someone is at the beginning to be what he is at the end."
"But surely! There has to be some kind of continuity!" I shouted. "Development, naturally, but at the same time loyalty!"
I attempted to continue, but I could already feel my irritation slipping away into the summer day that embraced Tainaron from all directions. Soon I was feeling the desire to protect the unknown creature.
"In a sense I understand him," I said with some considerable forebearance. "He is seeking his own form."
"Is that so?" said Longhorn, and we both leaned over the rail and looked downward. There was no longer any kind of hummock in the courtyard, but beside the large tree stood another tree, but much smaller and st.u.r.dier.
"Does he know we are here?" I asked. "Does he do it for us, or for his own amus.e.m.e.nt?"
"It is his work," said Longhorn, but I do not know if he was serious.
"Why are you laughing?" asked Longhorn in turn.
"How I love this city!" I said. "Perhaps I shall stay here for ever." (What on earth made me say it?) "Yes, stay here forever," Longhorn said, but his voice darkened to such a depth that I forgot the Mimic and turned toward him in astonishment.
The Great Window The Seventeenth Letter It was evening once, and I was a child, out in the street. All the lights were on, street lamps, shop windows, car headlights; and I was standing in front of a toy shop. You know the shop; it is still there, in the centre of town, and you must have pa.s.sed it many times, or perhaps you have even been inside it in the days before Christmas.
That window! It was lit with prodigal brightness, and along the gla.s.s flowed glistening drops; a rainstorm had just pa.s.sed over the city and everything was clean, never before seen. In front of the dolls, cars, b.a.l.l.s and games, immediately behind the gla.s.s, a large selection of marbles had been set out in the shape of the petals of a flower. Some of them were transparent, others brightly coloured, others as white as milk.
I had never owned any marbles, and their glow captivated me; I admired them for a long time, but all of a sudden, from far away and without warning, the terrible knowledge slid between them and me that one day my mother would die.
When this pain hit me, I was looking at a particularly beautiful shimmering blue marble, and something happened: it changed. Its colour did not vary, its size was the same as before, and it remained steady in its place; but all the same it was quite different from before. Something had fallen away from it, something which only a moment ago had made it desirable, the most important thing of all. The marble was no longer of value; it was merely junk, and there was no longer anything in the entire shop window to interest me. It was as if stage spotlights had been extinguished in the middle of a performance and a curtain had been drawn from earth to heavens in front of all the magnificence, a curtain whose name was VOID.
Even the street in which I stood was now a strange street in a strange city; but I went on standing in the same place. A vague desire for knowledge forced me to make an experiment. I wanted to see whether I could make the marble change back to what it was before. Gazing at it unwaveringly, I began to struggle to disperse the thickness of night which, unseen, dominated everything I looked at.
I did not believe the darkness, I said, it is not true; and soon it was indeed not true; it paled and lifted like a night-mist. And the marble glowed before me, lovely as ever.
But then I understood that the plenty of the shop window, all the jewels of its treasure trove, were only a tiny foretaste of what life would bring me with both hands no, a hundred hands! a thousand!
And I have never left that shop window. I stand and stand, I look and look at how it shines, and goes dark, and shines again. There is night and there is day, and I see both h.e.l.l and heaven through the same window.
The Work of the Surveyor The Eighteenth Letter Today I have looked through my window at the work of the City Surveyor. I have already watched him in another part of the city, fulfilling his professional responsibilities, and now, this morning, he has reached our street. He measures the lengths and widths of streets, the diameters of squares and the heights of buildings. I do not know why he measures them, but I suppose the information he produces is stored in an archive somewhere and that interested parties can consult them there.
His territory is rather large and he is very hardworking, but he has only one measuring device: his own body. It is a long, green body, and he uses it extremely skilfully; I have previously had the opportunity to admire such agility only in the performances of acrobats. Sometimes his body forms a large loop; the next moment it has stretched out again to a long, straight stretch and he has covered quite a distance along the street. He also has no trouble in climbing vertical brick walls, right up to the eaves, and he does not seem to suffer from vertigo of any kind.
As I came from the shop and took a short cut through the park, I saw the Surveyor eating his lunch on a bench. On his head was the white cap worn by city officials, decorated with spiral patterns. I asked if I might sit with him for a moment, and he willingly made s.p.a.ce.
"Would you like some?" he asked, opening his lunch box. But I had already eaten, and refused, with thanks. There was something I wished to ask him.
"Do you find your work interesting?" I asked, for something to say.
"Extremely," he replied, munching his sandwich. Behind us, in playground, the children of Tainaron, screaming, were playing the games played by all the children in the world: running away, being had, and then exchanging prisoner for persecutor.
"Have you been doing it for long?"
"Ever since I reached my full height," the Surveyor replied, pouring a steaming, sweet-smelling drink from his thermos flask into his cup.
Bells rang out from the cathedral, the children left the playground and disappeared into the shade of the trees. It was already almost noon, and the siesta was beginning. I could not see any movement anywhere, and heard only the booming of the bells. It felt as if life were standing still, resting and reviving like the Surveyor.
Through the incessant ringing, I heard his even voice: "My father did the same work, and his father and his grandfather and his grandfather"s father. A new City Surveyor is chosen from each generation; now it is I."
And he added something which I did not hear, for the power of the bells swelled to numb the ears.
I bent over toward him and his flat face neared my mouth. Now I could hear what he said: "I am the measure of all things."
But he did not say it haughtily, merely stated it, brushing the crumbs from his chest.