Page:Evgenii Zamyatin - We (Zilboorg translation).pdf/208

is the most terrible of weapons; you can kill anything with laughter, even murder. I sat at my table and laughed desperately; I saw no way out of that absurd situation. I don’t know what would have been the end if things had run their natural course, but suddenly a new factor in the arithmetical chain: the telephone rang.

I hurried, grasped the receiver. Perhaps she . . . I heard an unfamiliar voice:

“Wait a minute”

Annoying, infinite buzzing. Heavy steps from afar, nearer and louder like cast iron, and . . .

“D-503? The Well-Doer speaking. Come at once to me.”

Ding! He hung up the receiver. Ding! like a key in a keyhole.

U- was still in bed, eyes closed, gills apart in the form of a smile. I picked up her clothes, threw them on her, and said through clenched teeth:

“Well. Quick! Quick!”

She raised her body on her elbow, her breasts hanging down to one side, eyes round. She became a figure of wax.

“What?”

“Get dressed, that is what!”

Face distorted, she firmly snatched her clothes and said in a flat voice, “Turn away . . ."

I turned away, pressed my forehead against the glass. Light, figures, sparks were trembling in the black, wet mirror. . . . No, all this was I, myself—within me. . . . What did HE call me for? Is it possible that HE knows already about her, about me, about everything?

U-, already dressed, was at the door. I made a step toward her and pressed her hand as hard as though I hoped to squeeze out of it, drop by drop, what I needed.

“Listen . . . Her name, you know whom I am talking of, did you report her name? No? Tell the truth, I must . . . I don’t care what happens, but tell the truth!”

“No.”

“No? But why not, since you . . .”