The alarm went off: 7:15. Time to get up, shave, wash, and go to work. A murky sun over the buildings, the sky full of smoke, dirty, like an old curtain. The wind raised dust, whipping the trees, blowing through the balcony door. Downstairs a bus licks people off the street at the stops. They gather again, and they all have the same expression on their faces: can't be late for work!
And I have to get to work too. I'll get to the lab, jot down the results of my unsatisfactory experiment, and console myself with the bromides: “You learn from your mistakes;” “There are no beaten paths in science;” and so on. And I'll start the next experiment. And I'll make more mistakes and destroy not guinea pigs, but… people? You conceited, dreaming cretin, armed with the latest technology!
The wind whips the trees. It was all in the past: the days of research and discovery, the evenings of meditation, the nights of dreaming. And here you are, the cold, clear morn, wiser than the night. Merciless morning! It's probably in this sober time that women who had dreamed all night of having a child go for an abortion. And I had an abortion. I dreamed. I wanted to bring happiness to the world, and I've created two miserable people already. I'll never master this work. I'm weak, unneeded, and stupid. I must take up something mediocre, that I can handle — for an article, for a dissertation. And then everything will be fine.
The wind whips the trees. The wind whips the trees….
On the next balcony there's a recording of Mozart's Requiem playing. My neighbor, associate professor Prishchepa, wants to get into a mathematical mood first thing in the morning. “Requi. requiem….” The voices are bidding farewell to someone clearly and simply. This is good music to shoot oneself by. Nobody would notice the shot.
The wind whips the trees.
What have I done? And yet I had doubts, and then not doubts but knowledge. I knew that any change I made stayed with him, that the computer — womb remembered everything. I didn't pay attention. Why?
I had a thought, not expressed in words, so that I wouldn't be ashamed, or a feeling of well — being and safety, I guess: “after all, it's not me. It's not happening to me….” And also a feeling of impunity: “Whatever I want, I'll do. Nothing will happen to me….”
You won't shoot yourself, you animal! You won't do anything to yourself — you'll live to a ripe old age and even set yourself up as an example to others.
The wind whips the trees. The bus licks people off the stops.
I don't want to go to work.
September 20. Gray asphalt. Gray clouds. The motorcycle swallows up miles like noodles. A kid stops by the road, and I can tell from his position that he's decided to be a motorcyclist on a red bike when he grows up. Be a motorcyclist, kid; just don't become a researcher.
I keep accelerating. The speedometer says over ninety. The wind is lashing my face. Here comes a dump truck, hogging most of the road, of course. Those bastard truckdrivers, they don't take bikers for people. Always trying to ride us off the road. Well, I'm not yielding to this one!
No, there was no crash. I'm alive. I'm writing down how I tore around glassy — eyed today. I have to write about something. The truck veered to the right at the last second. I watched in the rear view mirror as the driver pulled over and ran into the road, waving his fists at me.
Actually, if I had crashed, what difference would it make? There's a spare Krivoshein in Moscow. I can't describe my repulsion and disgust for everything right now. Including me.
How he shook, how he hugged my feet — the strong, handsome “not me.” And I could have foreseen it and spared him. I could have! But I thought: “It'll work like this. What the hell! After all, he's not me.”
And it was so interesting, good, beautiful. We dreamed and talked, worried about the good of mankind, swore a vow. What shame! And in the work, I overlooked the fact that I was creating a man. I thought about everything — exquisite forms, intellectual content — but that it might hurt or scare him never entered my mind. I just decided that there was no informational death in the experiment — and fine. But death was a violence that I performed on him over and over.
How did it happen? How?
The white posts along the highway reflect the motor's hum: but — but — but — but how did it happen? But — but — but — but how? The speedometer reads 110, the gray stripes of earth and trees whiz by. At this speed I could escape from pursuers or save someone, getting there in time! But I have no one to run away from and no one to save. I did have someone to save, but I had to do some honest thinking there… and I didn't.
I can master heights, elements, with my brain and brawn. It's easy with the elements. They can be mastered. But how do you master yourself?
