Poison Moths of Cendad

The heat of the summer eventually arrived. Yellow shades were pulled over the windows at the office, and a large fan, 70 centimeters in diameter, was placed in the director's office as a donation from the electric company. On afternoons that were too hot, the director would get up, open the door between the office and our room, and say, "Here, everyone, try a little breeze."

Then the airflow from the big fan would waft in. My desk was not in the path of the breeze so it wasn't really any cooler, but it was rather pleasant to hear the rustle of papers accross the room and see the table skirt stir. On such days I would suddenly think of Fazelo-- my heart would race, my face would flush and I wouldn't know what to do. In any case, the whole of July was occupied by the following tasks:

· Asking the Teraki Specimen Works about the method of skinning the polar bear;

· Collecting estimates for the transport of volcanic bombs from the Yarxa mountain range;

Surveying the fading of botanical specimens; and

Procuring 2,300 new serial cards.

Then August began. On the afternoon of August 2nd, I was writing a detailed description of a stone carving from China's Han Dynasty when the office boy suddenly tapped the back of my neck.

"The director says you should come."

When I turned around, slightly annoyed, he repeated with some haughtiness, "The director says come now."

Without replying, I threaded my way past the desks of the others, opened the door and respectfully entered. The director was sitting on his fat white hands, in front of the fan, reading the newspaper. When I entered, he raised his heavy eyelids slightly, then pulled a sheet of orders from a folder on his desk and handed it to me. I was extremely pleased to see what was written on it: "You are ordered to the Iyhatovo seacoast from 3 August to 28 August, for the purpose of collecting eggs of coastal waterfowl."

To go to the beautiful Iyhatovo seacoast, with its numerous reefs, to search for eggs that we did not then possess was more of a paid holiday than a job. This was a clear indication that the director and all the others were aware of my hard work, and I expressed my heartfelt appreciation. The director glanced at my face, then went back to his newspaper. All he said was, "Go to Accounting and draw your travel advance."

I bowed politely and left the room. I greeted my fellow officials and showed them my orders, and finally went to the Accounting Office. The old man there had a sullen expression; he took my seal in silence, and handed me eight large banknotes. Next I checked out our office's large camera and binoculars. When I got back home, I took all my phonograph records to the old watch shop in town and sold them. Then I purchased a broad-brimmed panama hat and a linen suit the color of eggshell.

The next morning I locked up the watchman's cottage and caught the first train to Samo, the northernmost town on the Iyhatovo seacoast. Over the next three weeks I worked my way south from town to town, cape to cape and reef to reef, pressing seaweed, gathering rock samples, sketching and photographing old sea caves and geographic formations, and shipping all these back to the office. The people of the coast found even a low-ranking official like me to be a rarity, and made me welcome wherever I went. When I wanted to go to an offshore reef, there would be 16 men pulling the oars in unison to take me out in a boat with a red or yellow flag. At night they would gather in front of my lodgings, and show me various dances-- sometimes I thought I'd rather die than watch another. But when I thought of Fazelo and the beautiful Rozalo, who was working day after day in the hot fields, I had to admire the young women and men before me who wore themselves out working all day and then came to dance and sing. Then I would pledge to myself to be firm in doing what had to be done, and to serve others.

Thus, on the afternoon of August 30, I took a small steam packet to a port in the neighboring province of Sjormo, then went by train to the city of Cendad. During my travels I had sent a letter asking to view the specimens at the College of Science there on the 31st. I got off the train at Cendad, carrying the camera and a number of knapsacks, just as lamps were being lit. I got into the car sent by a hotel close to the college, along with five or six other guests. As I held the specimens I had gathered and rode in the car as it ran between the large buildings, I felt just like a general returning from a glorious victory. When I arrived at the hotel, however, I found the windows firmly sealed despite the heat. It was quite sticky when I went to inspect the room, so I asked the bellboy.

"Say, what's the deal? I can open the window, can't I?"

He ran his hand over his glossy hair, and said, "No, sir, I'm very sorry to say that we've had a bad outbreak of poison moths in this area, and windows cannot be opened after dusk. I'll bring a fan up right away."

As I watched the boy leave, I noticed a thick bandage wrapped around his neck like a stone ring, and his face was quite swollen. Undoubtedly, I thought, he had been bitten by these poison moths. A few moments later I heard, a sharp exchange of words between the boy and the guest in the next room-- it was both lengthy and intense. I was hot and tired, and in poor humor; I decided to make a quick visit to the barbershop, and left the room. As a passed the next room, I saw that the door had been left open and the boy was standing with his head hanging in great dejection. He was facing a fat, old man with grey hair and whiskers who was sunk deep in an easy chair, in the path of an electric fan.

"You work as a bellboy, but don't know how a first-class hotel operates, do you?" He scolded the boy with his cheeks puffing out.

I figured they were arguing about the fan and, laughing bitterly to myself, started to go on downstairs. Just then the boy faced me, and rolled his eyes as though there was nothing more that could be done. That cheered me up somewhat. I descended, step by step.

Now that I knew about the poison moths, I saw the sense behind a number of strange-looking things I had seen between the depot and the hotel. There had been the remains of numerous little fires on the sidewalks, and people had been walking along covered with bandages, or wiping their faces with white cloths. Oil lamps dangled from from the willow trees that lined the avenue. I entered a barber shop, a fairly spacious one. There were nine mirrors on the wall facing me, cleverly joined to make the room look just twice as big as it actually was. There was a line of potted cypress or hemlock trees. A man who appeared to be the boss was in the corner giving instructions to half a dozen apparent employees. A large placard hung on the wall above them elegantly listed four of their names as tonsorial artists, and described two others as assistants.

"Is your present hair style satisfactory?" one of them asked, as I sat on a high chair draped with a white cloth in front of a mirror.

"Yes." My mind was filled with Iyhatovo plain, to which I would return the following, and I didn't give much thought to my reply.

At that, he crooked a finger to call over two others who were not occupied.

"What do you think? The customer thinks this style is satisfactory, but may I ask your view?"

The two walked behind me and stared at my face, reflected in the mirror, for a moment before one of the artists folded one white-clothed arm over the other and replied.

"The customer's gums are pale and round, and very well-behaved, so don't you think a neo-Grecian would be preferable to a pompadour?"

"Yes, I think so too," the second agreed.

My artist nodded as though they had echoed his very thoughts, and then addressed me.

"How would this be-- a neo-Grecian style would harmonize with your face better than your present style..."

"Really? Just do that, then," I replied politely. I did so because I understood them to be skilled craftsmen.

My head was quickly made lovely, and my weariness was greatly relieved as well. As I looked at the green potted trees and the movement of the white fingers of the artist, I listened to the clip-clipping of the shears and thought of how I would sleep well that night, then spend the following day in the basement of the college sharing views with one of the assistants there.

All of a sudden, there was a loud scream from the man in the next chair. "No! Oh, no! Get it! Damn, damn, damn!"

I turned and looked in astonishment. The artists were swarming around him. The man who had screamed had one half his beard shaven off and was much thinner, but without question he was Destupago. I felt I had succeeded. Destupago was scowling ferociously without paying any attention to me.

"Where did it brush you?"

The head artist, wearing a linen morning coat, came over with a large flask in his hands, and pushed his way through the others. In the meantime, several of the artists had captured the small, yellow poison moth with a butterfly net.

"Here! Right here!" Destupago said as he pointed under his left eye.

The head artist quickly soaked a cloth with the fluid in the flask and wiped the area under the eye.

"What kind of medicine is that?" Destupago yelled.

"A 2% solution of ammonia," the boss replied calmly.

"Ammonia doesn't work-- I read it in the paper this morning."

"What paper did you read that in?" The boss was calmer than ever.

"The Cendad Daily News."

"It was mistaken. The director of the Provincial Health Department has declared that ammonia is effective."

"That doesn't make it true."

"Is that so? In any case, the spot seems to be quite swollen." The head artist looked somewhat annoyed. He turned around and carried the flask back to its place, enraging Destupago.

"That's an insult! I have an important meeting with army veterinarians tomorrow, you know. They'll get a bad impression if I go like this. I'll sue your shop!" As he shouted, he examined his red, rapidly swelling cheek in the mirror.

The boss's anger was clear in his reply. "What are you taking about! The poison moths are everywhere-- if one brushed you while you were walking around the streets, would you sue the mayor?"

Destupago sat down with an astringent look, and said "You. Hurry an finish up. Right now!" The other half of his beard was shaved, with careful attention to his misshapen cheek.

I was in a hurry as well; I wanted to be sure to finish before him. I planned to get up immediately if he finished first, and quietly found my wallet and pulled out a large coin. But for some reason, my artist was in even a bigger hurry than I was. He frequently looked at the clock.

He was able to shave a face like mine in 35 seconds.

"Now, sir, let me wash it."

Holding my hands so that Destupago would not recognize my face, I stood in front of a marble wash basin. The artist ran cold water over my head, occasionally wiping my face with his fingers, so I went ahead and washed my face myself. Then I returned to the chair.

Just then the boss said "There's one more minute. Finish up the important things while there's still electricity. Is the acetylene ready?"

"I've filled them," a boy dressed in white replied.

"Well, bring them in. You can't wait till the lights are out."

The young assistant carried in four acetylene lamps, lined them up in front of the mirrors, added water and lighted them. the acetylene began burning with a harsh growl. Just then, whistles at factories around the town all blew at once, children called out, and the bells of churches and temples began to ring. The electric lights blinked out. Lit only by the acetylene lamps, our surroundings took on a bluish cast. As I looked in the mirror at the dark, transparent glass door of the blue room, light seemed to float in the middle of the sea, and brought to mind ancient India. Outside the door, one of the artists had lit a little bonfire.

"The poison moths will be exterminated tonight," someone said.

"Well, how does that look?" my artist asked as he sprinkled my head with cologne from a gilded vase. Then he wiped my face carefully, turned toward the door, and said, "Please come take a look."

Some of the artists were standing by the door; others were out by the fire, gazing at the outdoor scene. But they all noisily came over and stood behind me. They examined my face in the mirror as though it were a matter of great interest, then said "Quite nice."

I got out of the chair, and paid with the coin that had grown warm in my grasp. Then I left through the big glass door and stopped in the street. It was my intention to follow Destupago.

I had a very strange feeling as I stood there; I couldn't stop the strong pounding of my heart. I was on a central avenue of Cendad, lined with with large Victorian buildings, but there was not one streetlamp lit. Large yellow lamps were hung from the willows along the street, and smoke from the red bonfires along the sidewalk rose into the gentle night air. The constellation Cassiopoeia glimmered above, and Lyra was also visible through the haze. For some reason it seemed to me like a summer night of some country far to the south. I waited, peering at what was happening inside the shop. I saw a number of winged insects actually fly into the flames. Everywhere I looked, people of the city were lighting fires, their faces wrapped in bandages or covered with cloth.

A little ways away I heard a high, sharp voice with somewhat unusual power coming in my direction. It came from a strange little old man, stooped but sturdy, who was holding up a board with four whale oil candles.

He called out this refrain: "No lights in the house! Don't light other lamps while the electricity is off. Put out any lights in the house."

If there were houses with lights burning, this old man went to each door and called out his instructions: "No lights in the house! Don't light other lamps while the electricity is off. Put out any lights in the house."

His voice echoed between the rows of buildings, and disappeared in the darkness.

The old man seem to be respected by all. Everyone he passed bowed politely. I could hear him calling at the top of his voice. "No lights in the house! Don't light other lamps while the electricity is off. Put out any lights in the house." Then, "Oh, good evening." He would greet the people around him as he was calling out the message.

"Who is that?" I asked the artist who was tending the fire.

"That's the fencing master."

The fencing master was walking straight toward us.

"No lights in the house! Don't light other lamps while the electricity is off. Put them out right away. Oh, good evening. You've had a long day."

The head artist had come out to greet him. "Good evening. It certainly has gotten hot."

"Yes, really. The moth restrictions make it unbearable."

"That's true. Well, good night." The fencing master kept calling out as he went on his way.

The voice faded in the distance, then stopped as he turned a corner somewhere. As it did, Destupago finally emerged from barber shop, with its look of a blue sea. He looked at the passers by for a moment, then walked off to the south. I started out after him, pretending to watch moths fall in the fire, but keeping close behind him. Destupago appeared to be very agitated about having been brushed by the poison moth. He seemed rather pitiful as I followed after him. Needless to say, no one greeted him, and Destupago walked along the edge of the street, in the shadows of the row of trees that lined it, as though trying his best to avoid being seen by others.

I was sure his bragging about meeting with army veterinarians was a lie. After a while Destupago stopped and looked around for a moment, then turned into a small side street. I kept on walking, as though unaware of him. Soon after turning, Destupago entered the gate of a cottage with a front garden. Up till that moment, I had been wondering whether to learn the situation and approach Destupago, or to go to the police, tell them this was the Destupago the Iyhatovo police were looking for and ask them to arrest him. But ignoring the consequences, I ran to try getting into Destupago's house.

"Mr. Destupago! Just a moment."

Destupago stopped still. He didn't attempt to flee when he saw me, but stood there looking despondent.

"I've come looking for Fazelo-- hand him over."

His hands were shaking. "That is a misunderstanding-- a misunderstanding. I know nothing of the boy."

"If that's true, why are you hiding in a place like this?"

Destupago turned quite red.

"The Iyhatovo police have been searching for you and Fazelo. They haven't given up. You'll be arrested tonight for sure. Where is Fazelo?" I spat out those lies without a thought.

Destupago shivered as he squinted at me from a face swollen into an odd shape by the poison moth, then spoke so fast I could barely understand him. "That's not the way it is-- not the way it is. This involves my honor-- my honor as a gentleman."

"If that's so, why are you hiding out here."

Destupago finally stopped shivering. He considered for a moment, then spoke more slowly.

"I only received a summons from the police. I received a travel permit, and sent a proxy. That was with the full acquiescence of the chief of police. I'm sure the police do not suspect me of anything."

"Then why did you get a travel permit and flee?"

Destupago was finally settled down. "Well, why don't you come in, and I'll explain in detail."

Destupago pushed open the small entryway door behind him. An old lady, who appeared to have been standing and watching us, came to greet him.

"Get us some tea."

Destupago walked directly into the room on the right. Although I didn't think there was much danger of it, it wouldn't do to let him escape now, so I went and stood in the doorway.

"Come on in, please."

I went into the parlor. Destupago had settled down completely.

"It's not completely wrong to say I came here to get away from someone. Actually, I'm the president of a carbonization plant in that forest, as you must be aware. However, it has been accumulating losses with the change in pharmaceutical prices; that couldn't be helped. Needless to say, I staked all my assets on this enterprise. Then, at a meeting of the board of directors, one of the directors proposed that we turn it into a brewery. We approved that, and tried brewing a very small amount on an experimental basis, but we didn't report it to the tax bureau. However, one of my subordinates has used that fact to intimidate me. That evening was a difficult time for me. The people who were there were all stockholders. I had picked that spot carefully. But the stockholders' opposition was extremely strong. I was ruined, and that's why I got so drunk. And that's the scene you walked in on."

The events of that evening finally became clear to me. At the same time, this Destupago sitting in front of me became an object of pity.

"Yes, I understand. But still, what happened to Fazelo?"

"I have no hatred for that boy," Destupago said. "If conditions were better, like they were once before, I would have helped him, and even gotten him into school. But I'm certain the boy has gone somewhere and is doing something. The police take the same view."

I suddenly stood up and bid Destupago farewell. "I'll leave, then. Please leave this place and return yourself, since I can't promise not to say what's happened when I get back."

Destupago spoke forlornly. "I really have no place to turn now. Please try to understand."

I bowed.

"Is Rozalo okay?" Destupago blurted out.

"Yes, she seems to be working." For some reason, my reply was not in my normal voice.

Wind and Grass Seed

On the morning of September 1st, I arrived at the office at the designated time carrying my travel voucher and various reports. I made the rounds greeting everyone, then knocked at the director's door and opened it to see if he had arrived yet.

"You're back, eh? How was it?" The director was buttoning his open collar with his right hand.

"Yes, I returned last night, thank you. Here are the reports. Once I fix up the specimens I gathered, I'll make up an index and bring it in."

"Okay. There's no need to rush it." All buttoned up, he looked quite presentable.

I thanked him and left the room. I spent the rest of the day organizing the desktops full of documents that had been crammed into the luggage I brought with me. The evening arrived before I realized. I left the office after all the others, had dinner at the cafeteria as usual, and returned to the racetrack. I realized then how tired I was, and decided to sit down for a little, and I dozed off before I knew it. In my sentimental evening dream, I was rowing a small boat between the reefs of Iyatovo, on which smooth, brown seaweed was being dried. Suddenly the boat began to shake wildly, and a terrifying dragon of the ancient sort appeared, and I was thrown out of the boat and onto the rocks. I opened my eyes. Someone had been shaking me.

I rubbed my sleep-filled eyes till I saw a face. It was Fazelo.

"Hey, what's up? Have you been here long?" I asked in surprise?

"I came back on August 10th. You've been away till now, haven't you?"

"I have. I was sent to the seacoast."

"Can you come see our plant tonight?"

"Your plant? What are you talking about? Where did you go, anyway?"

"Me, I went to a leather dyeing plant in Cendad."

"Cendad! Why did you go off there? And are you telling me to go back to Cendad tonight?"

"Not at all."

"What, then? But first, why did you go off so far?"

"I couldn't get into my place. So I kept on walking right past it. Finally morning came. I sitting, wondering what to do when a hide buyer came by-- he gave me a ride and something to eat. I started helping him out, and eventually we got to Cendad."

"I see. That really worked out well. I was wondering if you'd been tossed in the cauldron and boiled down at the vinegar works."

"I assisted an engineer there. He taught me all sorts of things. He taught me all about the chemicals. If it's a matter of leather, I know how to tan it, how to color it, or anything else."

"So why did you come back?"

"The police were looking for me. They didn't scold me, though."

"What did your employer say?"

"That I could go anywhere I wanted, he didn't care."

"So what will you do?"

"The old people, you know, abandoned the plant in Mur„d forest and said I could use it for leather work."

"Can you do that?"

"I can. Besides that, Milo is curing hams. Everyone is working there."

"Your sister?"

"She comes to the plant too."

"Really."

"So let's go. She may be there tonight."

I immediately forgot my weariness and stood up. "Let's go-- is it far?"

"A little beyond that Polano Square."

"That's pretty far. Let's go, though."

I quickly got into the clothes I had worn on my journey and we left the house. Fazelo started running.

The clouds had turned yellow and gave off a fierce light as they flew from south to north. On the plain, however, there was no wind at all. There were just stalks of various grasses jutting up with their heavy ears. The summer pearlwort flowers had dried to a dark brown color, and even their trifoil leaves seemed to have shrunken greatly.

We ran steadily along.

"Look. There's a light over there."

Fazelo stopped and pointed a finger toward the grass on the right. Shaded by a stalk of grass, a tiny pearlwort flower was blooming alone, pale and lonely looking.

Then the wind began blowing toward us, surrounding us with dark waves of grass, and my whole body was chilled by the cold breeze that filtered through any small openings in my clothing.

"Autumn really is here," I said with a loud sigh.

Fazelo removed his jacket and held it under his arm. "All the lights along the way have gone out, except..."

Finally one of us spoke or else there was a rustling of wind, and we started off again.

Two farmers carrying huge scythes crossed our path. They seemed to glare at us, then stopped and waited silently for us to reach them. We hurried to get there.

"Well, I see you've returned," one said to me. "I hope everything went smoothly."

It seemed to be one of the men from Polano Square who had fled when Destupago asked him to be his second.

"Yes, thank you. Fazelo is also back and as good as ever."

"Dr. Wildcat isn't around, though?"

"Dr. Wildcat? Destupago? I met Destupago in Cendad. He looked pretty bad-- down on his luck."

"Destupago down on his luck? No, the general owns a lot of property in Cendad."

"He told me he had staked all his assets on that carbonization company."

"What a story! Would that wildcat do such a thing? When the company stock was next to worthless, the general escaped."

"No, he told me he took the responsibility for a procedural error when some director wanted to make it into a brewery."

"Where does he get that? Any ideas about a brewery all came from the general himself."

"But it's true that they only brewed a small amount on an experimental basis, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid you've been fooled good. All those barrels that were shipped as acetone were full of fancy blended whisky. The bad thing is that it was blended with wood alcohol. They were smuggling it out for two years."

"Well then, is that what they used at Polano Square?"

"I'm afraid so. But you've got to admit the general is a sharp one. Everyone has some weak point, so he can cry himself to sleep. But now that plant is getting used by everyone for all sorts of things, to supply each other with their needs as much as possible, I hear."

"So they say."

"Doesn't Fazelo do something there?"

"Yes, but it doesn't really take much new capital. They're trying things like tanning leather, and curing hams, and steaming chestnuts and drying them."

"Well, we'd better be off." Fazelo nudged me.

"See you later."

"Good evening."

We started walking. I was wondering whether I should believe Destupago, or what everyone was saying about him.

"It's just ahead-- just ahead. I've been here a number of times now, so I know." I was walking close to Fazelo, and spoke so that he could hear me over the wind. Fazelo gave a slight nod, and started running. In the dark of evening, all I could see was the sway of his white shirt as he ran.

A moment later I saw five pale lights on the far edge of the plain, and those five alder trees looking vaguely like a green umbrella above them. As I got closer, it looked as though the leaves were being tossed wildly about by the wind, and the branches striking against each other so as to give off the pale light. Beneath them were the shadows of five people with acetylene lamps of the sort used when taking fish. This time there were no tables or chairs or boxes in the square. There was just one empty crate. In the midst I saw a big hat and round shoulders I remembered-- Milo was coming toward us.

"So you've finally come! Tonight is a good night." Milo greeted me as though everyone had been waiting for me for some time. Together we hurried through what had been Polano Square.

The grass of the plain had grown coarse, and reeds whistled in the wind here and there. Occasionally an oak or birch stood out black against the sky, swaying back and forth. Before I knew it we were walking single file along a narrow path.

"Pretty soon now," called out Fazelo, who led the way.

There were thick woods on either side of the road by then. After we walked another 30 minutes in silence, there was the smell of something like wood shavings, and then a long, grey roof appeared before our eyes.

"Someone's coming," Fazelo called out.

Lights slanted sown from the windows of the large, black building.

"Hey, Mr. Kust is here," Milo called in a loud voice.

"Hey!" someone replied from inside.

We entered the building. A huge iron boiler faced us like a sphinx, and there were numerous large unglazed ceramic pots lined up on the earthen floor.

"Well, good evening." I was greeted by an older, barefoot man from the earthen floor.

"That's the carbonization kettle," Fazelo said.

"How many people were working here?" I asked.

"Let me see, there were 30 or more when it was flourishing," Milo replied.

"What went wrong?"

Everyone looked at each other. Then the older man said, "The price of medicine dropped."

"I suppose so. But it's too late for that. But listen-- Fazelo, I think this kettle would be best for making acetic acid. Back then I think the company was hurt because too many people were involved, but if we do it ourselves, it will be a lot of work but the town pharmacy will accept small lots of 10 or 20 bottles."

"That's right," Fazelo said.

"And we could cure hams over there by running the smoke from under here through the cellar where they made the liquor."

"Sarto said the same thing. And if we put it in the boiler, we can get charcoal, since we won't sell the ham at first; we'll share it among ourselves."

"Good, let's do that. Will you come take a look from time to time, Mr. Kust?"

"Oh, I have friends that know about livestock and others that know about forest products. I'll tell them about Polano Square, and invite them to come here."

"That's right-- we all put a lot of energy into searching for Polano Square. When we finally found it, it was just a drinking bout in an election campaign, but I can't help feeling that the real Polano Square from old times is around somewhere."

"And so, couldn't we create it with our own hands?"

"That's right-- instead of a cowardly, disreputable, self-deceiving Polano Square, we can build an interesting Polano Square where you can go in the evening to sing a song, or breathe the fresh air, and have a good time and still have energy to work hard the next day."

"I think we really can do it. That's because we're thinking it out now."

"If we're going to do anything, we'll have to study it carefully. Our luck will be good if we do that, but we still don't even know how we should start. There are lots of schools in town, with lots of students. They spend the whole day studying, and good teachers teach them so that they want to learn. We don't have even three hours a day to study. That's because we're generally tired and want to sleep. We don't even have lecture notes, much less teachers. When we realize what we don't know and ask questions, there aren't any answers. But we will have to study for all we're worth. We should all try to come up with ways that will let us study more."

The boy sat down. I spoke up immediately.

"Listen, everyone. Study is definitely possible for all of you. The students in town study full time, but they've forgotten why they're studying. The teachers want to teach them as much as possible, but they weary the students' heads and leave them exhausted. And so they say they have to take up tennis, or jogging. They don't play tennis or baseball as a matter of competition, but they play it more than their bodies need. But who gets ahead? They do, no matter how you look at it; we're stuck with the really terrible jobs, and how can we ever catch up? It's like you just said-- they specialize in something for a few years, and then they take it easy, drinking wine, owning homes, and never studying again. But we work all our lives doing the same old thing.

"Listen, if we don't drink we're 10 percent better stronger than if we do. If we don't smoke we're 20 percent stronger. If we make up our minds which way to go, and then put our mental powers in order, we're 20 percent stronger than if our minds are a mess. All the energy that they spend thinking of women and arguing with each other, we can spend on gaining true happiness. Look, pretty soon you'll have twice the strength that they do. But it won't do to have work forced on you by others, as in the past. Those people were born at a time when they have to drink like that to continue their cold, lonely lives.

"Let's go on in silence. You will draw new strength from the wind and the shining clouds. And before long, you will have a new Polano Square on this plain that is even more splendid than the old fairy tales!"

There were happy shouts from everyone. Then Fazelo said, "We can study during the winter. We can teach ourselves by all reading the same book, then gathering at the plant one evening every five days to ask each other questions. You'll teach us something, won't you, Mr. Kust?"

"Oh, me? I used to be a botany teacher, so I can teach you the physiology of plants and two or three other things. But you know, you don't have to learn by the old method of studying useless things just to become knowledgeable. It's enough to get the really basic things and the things you really need. Your work will teach you other things one at a time, and soon you'll be able to do things by reading about them yourselves."

"I think we should get together at plant in the winter and do various things. Fazelo can tan leather, and I can make vests, even if their not the greatest. Milo has always made very good hats, and we'll get better when it's our job."

"That's right-- the things we make in the winter we can exchange among ourselves. I can make things by carving them out of wood."

"Let's do it! In the summer we can feed ourselves by working in the fields and meadows, and in the winter we can make necessities for each other..."

Milo sat down, his eyes narrowed against the fierce wind. The alder trees bent over like bows. I stood up despite the wind.

"That's right, everyone. A new day has dawned for you. The thousand geniuses that will soon occupy this plain should show one another respect, and do all the necessary little jobs. I wish I could join you!"

"It would be nice if you'd take sister Rozalo," someone shouted.

I was startled by the unexpected remark.

"No, I still have much to study. It wouldn't be good for me to come here to stay. I can't join you. That's because I've gotten to be someone who can't do anything. I was born a poor schoolteacher's son, and was raised just reading books. I wasn't raised in the rain and the wind like you. My thoughts are just like your thoughts, but I can't say that for my body. There are jobs I can do, though. Long ago I thought of a way to triple the abundance of the plain. I'll do that."

(About one page of manuscript blank)

And so we arose. The wind was blowing hard, and everyone automatically turned his back to it. I had shouted too much earlier, and the wind choked me. The tops of the alder trees were bent nearly to the ground.

"All right, we'll do it. I've already got 11 hides steeping for tomorrow morning, and one kettle's worth of firewood is ready to go. Tonight will be the opening ceremony for the new Polano Square!"

"Does that mean we're going to drink water instead of wine?" That was the older, barefoot worker. General laughter broke out.

"Let's do it. Everyone out in front! I'll ladle out the water, Milo-- you get some glasses from the shelf."

Fazelo grabbed a bucket and went out. The rest took acetylene lamps and went out to the grass in front of the plant.

We sat in a circle on the grass. Milo passed glasses around, and Fazelo came back with the heavy looking bucket. "Wash your glasses, he said, and put a dipper of water in each.

I thought I would soon be shivering from the coldness of the water. Everyone was scrubbing his glass with his fingers.

"Rinse them now," Fazelo said as he ladled out more water. We dumped our water on the grass and took more.

"We need to wash them well," Fazelo said as he poured out more water. "They still have the smell of that wine."

"Fazelo, is tonight the first time the glasses have been washed?" Again, the words of the old acetic acid maker drew laughter.

"This time we'll drink. It's cold." Fazelo poured everyone another glass. The harsh wind made waves flicker white on the surface of the frigid water.

"Well, let's drink! One, two, three!" Everyone drank up. I also drank, and shivered from the cold.

"On the night when the last
of the pearlwort shines fair,
There's an autumn festival
At Polano Square.
But if guys who won't touch water
And just drink wine weren't gone,
Then we wouldn't get to see
Polano Square's new dawn."

Everyone laughed and applauded. Their voices were caught up by the wind and blown off in the direction of the old Polano Square.

Milo stood up. "I'll sing one too."

"When the pearlwort rattles dry
In a rush of autumn air,
There's an autumn festival
At Polano Square.
The drunken, yellow-shirted
Wildcat fled away
And nighttime at Polano Square
Is changing into day."

"Well, I'd like to sing too."

(Several lines of manuscript blank)

"Let's cheer, then. For the new Polano Square. Hurrah!" I cheered and threw my hat high in the air.

"Hurrah!"

We then started through the black woods. We passed the cluster of oaks and came to the old Polano Square. The alders flickered blue each time they were jostled by the wind. The acetylene lamps stretched our shadows long and black across the waves of grass, so that each of us looked like a steamboat on a gigantic river.

We reached the usual spot, and separated. One small pearlwort flower was still glowing there. I picked it, and stuck it in my lapel.

"It's time to say goodbye. I'll go for you again." As Fazelo spoke, everyone waved his cap. They all called out something to me, but the words were carried away by the wind; I couldn't hear them. I walked in my direction, they went in theirs, and the blue light and black shadows of the acetylene lamps grew smaller and smaller.

Seven years have passed since then. Fazelo's group had quite a hard time at first, but somehow they managed to remain interested just the same.

On a number of occasions after that I went to chat with them, or took along a friend for them to consult with. After three years had passed, Fazelo's group had established an impressive industrial cooperative, and their hams and leather goods and acetic acid and oatmeal were widely available, in Morio, Cendad and the surrounding countryside.

In the third year, the circumstances of my job took me away from Morio. I became an assistant at the college and a technician at the Agriculture Experimental Station. As I sat in a room filled with the harsh sound of a neighboring rotary press, in the busy but wild city of Tokio where I lived without my friends of the past, looking through half-closed eyes at some rare instance of natural history in a 50-line ledger in my charge, I received a letter.

It was a sheet of music, printed on thick paper to be passed around and sung by everyone. This was the song:

The Song of Polano Square

We took turns singing an ancient largo
On the square at night, lit by pearlwort lamps.
We brush the clouds away and forget the night wind,
But when the harvest is at hand, the year has gotten old.

If I were to receive my one true desire,
We would laugh together across the Milky Way.
We would burn all our cares on the bonfire,
And create a glorious new world.

I was sure the music had been written by Fazelo. My reason for saying that is that it just fit a melody Fazelo would whistle out on the plain. I could not tell, however, if the song was written by Milo, or Rozalo, perhaps someone else.

Дата добавления: 2015-10-28