Page:Evgenii Zamyatin - We (Zilboorg translation).pdf/38

Rh While we were ascending the wide, dark stairs, I-330 said, “I love her, that old woman.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps for her mouth—or perhaps for nothing, just so.”

I shrugged my shoulders. She continued walking upstairs with a faint smile, or perhaps without a smile at all.

I felt very guilty. It is clear that there must not be “love, just so,” but “love because of.” For all elements of nature should be

“It’s clear ” I began, but stopped at that word and cast a furtive look at I-330. Did she notice it or not? She looked somewhere, down; her eyes were closed like curtains.

It struck me suddenly: evening about twenty-two; you walk on the avenue and among the brightly lighted, transparent, cubic cells are dark spaces, lowered curtains, and there behind the curtains What has she behind her curtains? Why did she phone me today? Why did she bring me here? and all this

She opened a heavy, squeaking, opaque door and we found ourselves in a somber disorderly space (they called it an “apartment”). The same strange “royal” musical instrument and a wild, unorganized, crazy loudness of colors and forms like their ancient music. A white plane above, dark blue walls, red, green, orange bindings of ancient books, yellow bronze candelabra, a statue of Buddha, furniture with lines distorted by epilepsy, impossible to reduce to any clear equation.

I could hardly bear that chaos. But my companion apparently possessed a stronger constitution.

“This is my most beloved—” she suddenly caught herself (again a smile, bite, and white sharp teeth)—“to be more exact, the most nonsensical of all ‘apartments.’ ”

“Or, to be most exact, of all the States. Thousands of microscopic States, fighting eternal wars, pitiless like—”

“Oh, yes, it’s clear,” said I-330 with apparent sincerity.