Page:Evgenii Zamyatin - We (Zilboorg translation).pdf/138

you seem to be behind an opaque ancient wall; through that wall I hear a rustle and voices; I cannot make out the words, I don’t know what is there. I cannot bear it. You seem always to withhold something from me; you have never told me what kind of place it was where I found myself that day beneath the Ancient House. Where did those corridors lead? Why was the doctor there—or perhaps all that never happened?”

I-330 put her hands on my shoulders and slowly entered deeply into my eyes.

“You want to know all?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you would not be afraid to follow me anywhere? Wherever I should lead you?”

“Anywhere!”

“All right then. I promise you, after the holiday, if only . . . Oh, yes there is your Integral. I always forget to ask; will it soon be completed?”

“No. ‘If only’ what? Again! If only’ what?”

She, already at the door: “You shall see.”

I was alone again. All that she left behind her was a barely perceptible scent, similar to that of a sweet, dry, yellow dust of flowers from behind the Green Wall; also, sunk deeply within me, question marks like small hooks similar to those the ancients used for fishing (vide the Prehistoric Museum).

. . . Why did she suddenly ask about the Integral?