Chapter 5 Chapter 3 Pavel (2)

That night, he had a dream.He dives underwater.The light is faint blue.He glided gracefully sideways; his hat seemed to be off, he was dressed in black, and he had something of a turtle, a large turtle in his natural environment.The waves above his body are rippling, and below his body is a pool of still water.He swam through patches of weed: the slow-moving weeds touched his fins like fingers, if he had fins. He knows what he's looking for.Occasionally he opened his mouth while swimming, making what he thought was a shout or a call.With every shout or call, water gushed into his mouth; every syllable was replaced by a sip of water.He grew bloated until his breastbone brushed the silt of the river bed.

Pavel lay on his back.His eyes are closed.His hair was flowing and soft as a baby's. With a final cry from his turtle-like throat, which he thought sounded like a dog barking, he charged at the child.He wanted to kiss the child's face; but when his stiff lips touched, he wasn't sure he wasn't biting. At this time, he woke up. According to his old habit, he always sat in the morning at the small desk in his room.When the maid came in to clean, he waved her out.But he didn't write a single word.He is not incapacitated.His heart beats regularly and his mind is clear.He can pick up a pen and write on paper at any time.But he worried that what he wrote would look like the work of a madman—a page full of evil, obscenity, overwhelming.In his imagination, madness gurgled through the arteries in his right arm to fingertips and pen and paper;It wasn't blood or ink that flowed onto the paper, but a black acidic liquid that looked faintly green under polarized light.Doesn't dry on paper: if touched with a finger it has a fluid, tactile feel.Text that even the blind can read.

In the afternoon he returned to Pavel's room in Candle Street.He closed the inner door to the room and pushed a chair against the door.Then he spread the white suit on the bed.In daylight, he could see how dirty the cuffs were.He sniffed at his armpits and could clearly smell the scent: not a child's, but an adult's.He sucked and sucked.How many times does it take for the smell to disappear?If you put clothes inside a glass cover, will the smell be preserved? He took off his own clothes and put on the white one.Although the jacket was too baggy and the trousers were too long, he didn't think he looked funny in them.

He lay down and folded his arms.The gesture was dramatic, and he could do anything on impulse.But he has no faith in impulse. He had a vision: Petersburg stretched out, vast and low, beneath the pitiless stars.A banner hung in the sky with a word written in Hebrew letters.He didn't know Hebrew, but he knew it was a condemnation, a curse. A gate fastened with seven chains shut his son out.His difficult task was to open that door. Thoughts, feelings, visions.Does he believe all this?They came from the deepest part of his heart; but the heart was not much more credible than reason. I am retreating step by step, he thought; when there is no way to retreat, what is left?

He imagined himself back inside the egg, or at least back into something smooth and cold and gray.Maybe it's not just an egg: maybe it's the soul, maybe that's what the soul is. There was a rustling sound under the bed.Was it rats?He doesn't care.He turned around, covered his face with the white shirt, and took a deep breath. Ever since he learned of his son's death, something in him had been fading away, what he thought was firmness.I am the one who died, he thought; or rather, I died, but death did not come.He felt that his body was strong and solid and would not collapse.His chest was like a well-slatted barrel.His heart will beat for a long time.Even so, he was dragged out of human time.The water that engulfed him continued to flow, still had its direction, even its purpose; but the purpose was no longer life.What engulfed him was dead water, still water.

He fell asleep.When I woke up, it was dark and quiet.He struck a match, trying to sort out his confused thoughts.It's past midnight.Where is he? He tossed and turned under the blanket, sleeping fitfully and restlessly.In the morning, with his hair disheveled and smelling, he met Anna Sergeyevna on his way to the bathroom.She wore a turban and big boots, like a saleswoman in a market.She looked at him in surprise. "I fell asleep and I was tired," he explained.But the problem is not there.The problem was that he was still wearing the white suit. "If you don't mind, I want to stay in Pavel's room before I leave," he went on. "In a few days."

"We can't talk about it right now, I'm in a hurry," she replied.She clearly didn't like the idea.No consent was given either.But he had already paid the rent, and there was nothing she could do. All morning he sat at the table in his son's room, his head in his hands.He can't pretend to be writing.His mind turned to the moment of Pavel's death.He couldn't bear the thought of Pavel's last moment as he fell, knowing that nothing could save him, that he was certain to die.The certainty of certainty was more terrifying than death itself, and he had to convince himself that Pavel might not have felt it because of the unpreparedness and panic when he fell, and because his mind would produce some kind of self-anesthesia in the face of unbearable pain. That terrible certainty and pain.He sincerely hoped that was the case.At the same time, he knew that the reason he hoped was a form of self-numbing, so as not to think that Pavel knew very well when he fell.

At times like this, he couldn't tell Pavel from himself.They were the same person, and that person was more or less just a thought, and Pavel thought the thought through his body, and he thought through Pavel's body.This idea keeps Pavel alive forever, always in the Fall. He didn't want his son to know he was dead.He thought: As long as I am alive, let me alone know!No matter how much willpower it takes, let me be that thinking animal through the air! He sat at the table, closed his eyes, and clenched his fists, trying to keep Pavel from knowing that he was dead.He felt that he was the statue of Triton on the Piazza Barbellini in Rome, with the conch in front of his mouth constantly spouting a stream of crystal clear water.Day and night He breathes life into the waters.The tendons on the bronze neck were bulging from the exertion.