The Snail on the Slope Page 10

  She took a look at Candide and slowed down to a walk after all. Candide dragged himself to the nearest tree, leaned his back, head, and whole body against it, and closed his eyes. He really wanted to sit down, to collapse, but he was afraid to. He kept repeating silently, like a mantra: it’s lies, it’s all lies, it’s a lie about the moss, too. But he was still afraid. His heart was pounding wildly, his legs didn’t seem to be there at all, his lungs kept exploding and flowing painfully through his chest with each breath, and the entire world was slippery and salty with sweat.

  “What if they catch us?” He heard Nava’s voice like through cotton wool. “What are we going to do when they catch us, Silent Man? Looks like you aren’t good for much right now, you probably can’t fight anymore, eh?”

  He wanted to say, I can fight, but he only managed to move his lips without making a sound. He was no longer afraid of the thieves. He was no longer afraid of anything at all. He was only afraid to move and afraid to lie down in the moss. This was the forest, whatever lies they had told, this was still the forest, he always remembered that, he never forgot that, even when he had forgotten everything else.

  “You don’t even have a stick anymore,” Nava was saying. “Should I maybe find you a stick, Silent Man? Should I find you one?”

  “No,” he mumbled. “Don’t . . . Too heavy . . .”

  He opened his eyes and pricked up his ears. The thieves were close; he could hear them clomping through the thicket, huffing and puffing, and they didn’t sound the least bit lively—the thieves were also having a hard time.

  “Let’s keep going,” said Candide.

  They passed the region of the dangerous white moss, then the region of the dangerous red moss, then they were again surrounded by the wet swamp with its thick, still water. The surface of the water was plastered with humongous pale flowers smelling unpleasantly of meat, and there was a mottled gray animal peeking out of every flower, following them with its eyes on stalks.

  “Splash the water harder, Silent Man,” Nava said matter of factly, “or something will latch on to you, you’ll never be able to get it off, don’t think that being vaccinated means it won’t latch on to you, it will, too. Then it’ll die, of course, but much good will that do you . . .”

  The swamp suddenly ended, and the terrain rose steeply. Tall, striped grass with sharp knifelike edges now made an appearance. Candide looked back and saw the thieves. For some reason, they’d stopped. For some reason, they were standing knee-deep in the swamp, leaning on their cudgels and watching them go. They must have run out of breath, thought Candide—they must have also run out of breath. One of the thieves raised his hand, gestured for them to return, and yelled, “What are you doing? Come back!”

  Candide turned away and followed Nava. After the swamp, it was a big relief to walk on solid ground, even going uphill. The thieves were yelling something—at first two thieves yelled in unison, then three. Candide glanced back one last time. The thieves were still standing in the swamp, in the leech-filled mud; they hadn’t even come out onto dry ground. Seeing him turn around, they started frantically waving their arms and shouting over each other. It was hard to make out the words.

  “Come back!” they seemed to be yelling. “Come baaack! . . . We won’t touch yooou! . . . You idiots are dooomed! . . .”

  We aren’t that stupid, Candide thought with malicious delight, takes one to know one, like I’ll believe you. I’m sick and tired of believing people . . . Nava had already disappeared behind the trees, and he hurried after her.

  “Come baaack! . . . We’ll let you gooo! . . .” the leader bellowed.

  How out of breath can they be if they can yell that loud? Candide thought in passing. Then he immediately started thinking that now was a good time to get a bit farther away, then to sit down for a rest and check his body for ticks and leeches.

  5.

  PERETZ

  Peretz showed up at the Director’s waiting room at precisely 10:00 in the morning. There were already about twenty people there. Peretz was assigned to be fourth in line. He sat down in a chair between Beatrice Wah, an employee of the Assistance to the Locals Team, and a sullen employee of the Penetration Through Engineering Team. The sullen employee, according to the name tag on his chest and the inscription on his white cardboard mask, was to be addressed as “Brandskugel.” The waiting room was painted pale pink, a sign saying NO SMOKING, NO LITTERING, NO NOISE hung on one wall, and there was a painting on another wall depicting the heroic feat of Selivan the forest explorer: before the eyes of his astonished companions, Selivan was raising his arms and transforming into a jumping tree. The pink curtains on the windows were completely drawn, and a giant chandelier blazed beneath the ceiling. Besides the front door, which said EXIT, the waiting room also had a huge door upholstered with yellow leather, which said NO EXIT. These words were written in fluorescent paint and had the appearance of a grim warning. The secretary’s desk, which contained an electric typewriter and four colorful phones, was immediately beneath these words. The secretary, a stout older woman wearing pince-nez, was haughtily studying a textbook on atomic physics. The visitors were talking in hushed voices. Many were obviously nervous and were feverishly leafing through old picture magazines. This was all precisely like the waiting room at the dentist’s, and Peretz again felt an unpleasant chill, a trembling in his jaws, and the desire to immediately go somewhere else.

  “They aren’t even lazy,” said Beatrice Wah, turning her handsome head slightly toward Peretz. “However, they do not tolerate systematic work. For example, how would you explain their singular readiness to abandon their settlements?”

  “Are you talking to me?” Peretz asked timidly. He had no idea how to explain this singular readiness.

  “No. I’m talking to mon cher Brandskugel.”

  Mon cher Brandskugel fixed the left side of his mustache, which was coming unglued, and mumbled in a strangled voice, “I don’t know.”

  “We don’t know either,” Beatrice said sadly. “As soon as our people appear near a village, they desert their houses and all their possessions and leave. This creates the impression that they have absolutely no interest in us. That they don’t need anything from us. What do you think, is this actually the case?”

  For some time, mon cher Brandskugel was silent, as if pondering this, looking at Beatrice through the strange cruciform portholes in his mask; then he said in the same exact tone, “I don’t know.”

  “It’s very unfortunate,” Beatrice continued, “that our team consists entirely of women. I understand that this is full of deep meaning, but all too often, we sorely feel the lack of masculine firmness, decisiveness—I would even say focus. Unfortunately, women have a tendency to spread themselves too thin; you may have noticed this yourself.”

  “I don’t know,” said Brandskugel, and his mustache suddenly fell off and glided gently to the floor. He picked it up, inspected it carefully, raising the edge of his mask, then spat on it in a businesslike manner and stuck it back in its place.

  A bell rang musically on the secretary’s desk. She put away the textbook, looked through her list, gracefully holding her pince-nez, and announced, “Professor Cockatoo, please enter.”

  Professor Cockatoo dropped his picture magazine, jumped up, sat back down, looked around, and turned white before their eyes. Then, biting his lip, his face utterly contorted, he launched himself out of his chair and disappeared behind the door that said NO EXIT. There were a few seconds of strained silence in the waiting room. Then voices began to drone and pages began to rustle again.

  “We simply can’t figure out,” said Beatrice, “what to interest them in, what to get them excited about. We’ve built them comfortable, dry dwellings on stilts. They fill them with peat and populate them with insects. We’ve tried to offer them tasty food instead of that sour muck they eat. No use. We’ve tried to dress them like human beings. One died, two got sick. But we keep experimenting. Yesterday we scattered a truckful of mirrors and
gold-plated buttons around the forest . . . Movies don’t interest them, and neither does music. Immortal works of art evoke something resembling a giggle . . . No, we need to start with the children. I, for one, would propose catching their children and organizing special schools. Unfortunately, this is fraught with technical difficulties—you can’t catch them by hand, this would require special machines . . . But then, you know that as well as I do.”

  “I don’t know,” mon cher Brandskugel said drearily.

  The ball rang again, and the secretary said, “Beatrice, it’s your turn now. Please enter.”

  Beatrice began to bustle around. She was about to rush through the door when she stopped, glancing around her with a bewildered look. She came back, looked under the chair, whispered, “Where did it go? Where is it?” scanned the waiting room with huge eyes, tugged on her hair, shouted loudly, “Where did it go?!”—then suddenly grabbed Peretz by the lapels and dumped him out of his chair onto the floor. It turned out that Peretz had been sitting on a brown folder, and Beatrice snatched it up, stood there for a few seconds hugging the folder to her chest, her eyes closed and an immeasurably happy expression on her face, then slowly walked toward the yellow leather–upholstered door and disappeared behind it. There was complete silence as Peretz got up and brushed off his pants, trying not to look at anyone. Then again, no one was paying any attention to him; everyone was looking at the yellow door.

  What will I say to him? thought Peretz. I’ll say that I’m a philologist and can’t be of use to the Administration; let me go, I’ll leave and never come back, I swear. Then why exactly did you come here? I’ve always been very interested in the forest, but then they don’t let me into the forest. And in any case, I came here totally by accident—I’m a philologist, you know. There’s nothing for philologists, writers, philosophers to do in the Administration. So they are right not to let me in, I acknowledge it, I admit it . . . I can’t stand to be in an Administration where people defecate onto the forest, nor in a forest where they catch children with machines. I’d rather leave and do something simpler. I know that people here are fond of me, but they are fond of me like children are fond of their toys. I’m here for their amusement; I can’t teach anyone here what I know . . . No, I shouldn’t say that, of course. I ought to try to squeeze out a tear, but where am I supposed to find it, this tear? I’ll trash the whole damn place, let him only try not to let me go. I’ll trash it and go on foot. Peretz imagined walking along the dusty road beneath the scorching sun, mile after mile, his suitcase getting more and more willful. And with each step, he’d be getting farther and farther away from the forest, from his dream, from the angst that had long since become the meaning of his existence . . .

  It’s been a while since they’ve called anyone in there, he thought. The Director must have taken a real interest in the child-capturing project. And why does no one ever come out of that office? There must be another way out.

  “Excuse me, please,” he said, addressing mon cher Brandskugel. “What time is it?”

  Mon cher Brandskugel looked at his wristwatch, thought about it, and said, “I don’t know.”

  Then Peretz bent down to his ear and whispered, “I won’t tell a soul. Not. A. Soul.”

  Mon cher Brandskugel wavered. He indecisively fingered the plastic tag with his name, furtively looked around, yawned nervously, looked around again, and, pressing the mask closer to his face, replied in a whisper, “I don’t know.” Then he got up and quickly decamped to another corner of the waiting room.

  The secretary said, “Peretz, it’s your turn.”

  “Why me?” Peretz was surprised. “I thought I was fourth.”

  “Visiting employee Peretz,” the secretary said, raising her voice. “It’s your turn.”

  “This one’s a philosopher,” someone grumbled.

  “His sort need to be drummed out,” came loudly from his left. “On their asses!”

  Peretz got up. His legs were wobbly. For no particular reason, he ran his hands up and down his body, making his clothes rustle. The secretary was staring at him.

  “A guilty conscience needs no accuser,” he heard from the waiting room.

  “The truth will out.”

  “And this is the kind of person we’ve been tolerating!”

  “Excuse me, but you’re the one who’s been tolerating him. I’ve never seen him before.”

  “What, you think I have?”

  “Hush!” said the secretary, raising her voice. “Be quiet! And you over there—no littering . . . Yes, I mean you. Employee Peretz, are you coming or not? Or do I need I call security?”

  “Yes,” said Peretz. “Yes, I’m coming.”

  The last person he saw in the waiting room was mon cher Brandskugel, who had barricaded himself into a corner with a chair: he was crouching down, his teeth bared, with a hand in the back pocket of his pants. Then he saw the Director.

  The Director turned out to be a slender, well-built man of about thirty-five, in an immaculately fitting expensive suit. He was standing in front of an open window and scattering bread crumbs for the pigeons that crowded on the windowsill. The office was completely empty; there were no chairs, not even a table, only a small copy of The Heroic Feat of Forest Explorer Selivan on the wall across from the window.

  “Peretz, visiting employee of the Administration?” the Director said in a clear, ringing voice, turning the fresh face of an athlete toward Peretz.

  “Y-Yes . . . That’s right . . .” Peretz stammered out.

  “A pleasure, a real pleasure. So glad to finally meet you. Hello. My name is Ahti. I’ve heard a lot about you. Let’s get acquainted.”

  Peretz, hunching with shyness, shook his hand, which was dry and strong.

  “As you can see, I’m feeding the pigeons. Such curious birds. I sense that they have enormous potential. How do you feel about pigeons, Monsieur Peretz?”

  Peretz hesitated, because he couldn’t stand pigeons. But the Director’s face radiated such joy, such keen interest, such eager anticipation of the answer, that Peretz mastered himself and lied: “I like them a lot, Monsieur Ahti.”

  “Do you like them fried? Or stewed? Personally, I like them in a pie. A pigeon pie and a glass of a good semi-dry wine—what could be better? What do you think?” And once again, a look of keen interest and eager anticipation appeared on Monsieur Ahti’s face.

  “An amazing thing,” said Peretz. He decided to give up and agree with everything.

  “Then take Picasso’s Dove of Peace!” said Monsieur Ahti. “It always brings to mind: ‘All inedible, nonpotable, unkissable. Time comes, time goes . . .’ What a clear articulation of our inability to capture beauty and give it material form!”

  “An excellent poem,” Peretz said dully.

  “When I first saw the Dove of Peace, I, like probably many others, thought that the picture must be incorrect or at least unnatural. But since then, my job has given me the opportunity to take a closer look at pigeons, and I suddenly realized that Picasso, that wizard, had captured the precise moment a dove folds its wings before landing! Its feet are already touching the ground, but it’s still in air, still midflight. It is the instant when motion becomes stillness, flight becomes rest.”

  “Picasso has some strange pictures that I don’t understand,” Peretz said, showing an independence of judgment.

  “Oh, you just haven’t looked at them long enough. To understand true art, it isn’t enough to walk through a museum two or three times a year. Pictures need to be looked at for hours. As often as possible. And they have to be originals. Not reproductions. Not copies . . . Here, take a look at this picture. Your face tells me exactly what you think of it. And you’re right: this is a bad copy. But if you’d ever had the opportunity to study the original, you would have appreciated the artist’s vision.”

  “And what exactly is it?”

  “I’ll try to explain it to you,” the Director offered readily. “What do you see in this picture? Strictly spea
king, it’s a half human, half tree. The picture is static. There’s no way to see or sense the transition from one form to the other. The picture is missing the most important thing: the direction of time. But if you’d ever had the opportunity to study the original, you would have understood that the artist was able to imbue the image with profound symbolic meaning, that it wasn’t a human tree he captured, nor even the transformation of a human into a tree, but nothing other than the transformation of a tree into a human. The artist used the idea from the old legend to depict the creation of a new being. The new from the old. The living from the dead. Intelligence from inanimate matter. The copy is completely static, and everything represented in it exists outside of the current of time. Whereas the original contains the motion of time! Its vector! The arrow of time, as Eddington would put it.”

  “And where is the original?” Peretz asked politely.

  The Director smiled. “The original was destroyed, of course, as befits a work of art that cannot be allowed to have ambiguous interpretations. The first and second copies were also destroyed as a precautionary measure.”

  Monsieur Ahti went back to the window and shoved the pigeons off the windowsill with his elbow.

  “OK. We’ve chatted about the pigeons,” he said in a new, strangely bureaucratic voice. “Name?”

  “What?”

  “Name? Your name?”

  “Pe- . . . Peretz.”

  “When were you born?”

  “Nineteen thirty.”

  “Be more precise!”

  “March 5 of 1930.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m a visiting employee. Assigned to the Scientific Guard Team.”