difference.... If I gaze at the sky at night, and I think of the distance of the stars ... Or even in the daytime ... If I were to be down here, for example, with my eyes facing up, my head would swim...." And she points to the clouds that are passing swiftly, driven by the wind. She speaks of her head swimming as of a temptation that somehow attracts her.
I am a bit disappointed that she hasn't said a word of thanks. I remark, "This isn't a good place to lie down and look at the sky, by day or by night. You can take it from me: I know about it."
As between the iron steps of the bridge, in the dialogue, intervals of emptiness open between one speech and the next.
"You know about looking at the sky? Why? Are you an astronomer?"
"No, another kind of observer." And I point out to her on the collar of my uniform the insignia of the artillery. "Days under bombardments, watching the shrapnel fly."
Her gaze passes from the insignia to the epaulets that I
----
don't have, then to the not very obvious chevrons of rank sewn on my sleeves. "You come from the front, Lieutenant?"
"Alex Zinnober," I introduce myself. "I don't know if I can be called a lieutenant. In our regiment, ranks have been abolished, but orders change all the time. For the moment, I'm a soldier with two stripes on his sleeves, that's all."
"I'm Irina Piperin, as I was also before the revolution. For the future, I don't know. I used to design fabrics, and as long as there's a shortage of cloth, I'll make designs for the air."
"With the revolution, there are people who change so much they become unrecognizable, and other people who feel they are the same selves as before. It must be a sign that they were prepared in advance for the new times. Is that the case?"
She makes no reply. I add, "Unless it's their total rejection that preserves them from changes. Is that your situation?"
"I... You tell me first: how much do you think you have changed?"
"Not much. I realize I have retained certain points of honor from before: catch a woman about to fall, for example, even if nowadays nobody says thank you."
"We all have moments of weakness, women and men, and it isn't impossible, Lieutenant, that I may have an opportunity to return your kindness of a moment ago." In her voice there is a hint of harshness, or perhaps of pique.
At this point the dialogue—which has concentrated all attention on itself, almost making one forget the visual upheaval of the city—could break off; the usual military vehicles cross the square and the page, separating us, or else the usual lines of women outside the shops or the usual processions of workers carrying signs. Irina is far away now, the hat with the rose is sailing over a sea of
----
gray caps, of helmets, kerchiefs; I try to follow her, but she doesn't turn around.
Several paragraphs ensue, bristling with names of generals and deputies, concerned with the shelling and retreats from the front, about schisms and unifications in the parties represented in the Council, punctuated by climatic annotations: downpours, frosts, racing clouds, windstorms. All this, in any case, solely as a frame for my moods: a festive abandonment to the wave of events, or of withdrawal into myself as if concentrating myself into an obsessive pattern, as if everything around me served only to disguise me, to hide me, like the sandbag defenses that are being raised more or less on all sides (the city seems to be preparing to fight street by street), the fences that every night billposters of various factions cover with manifestos that are immediately soaked by the rain and become illegible because of the absorbent paper and the cheap ink.
Every time I pass the building that houses the Heavy Industry Commission I say to myself: Now I'll go and call on my friend Valerian. I have been repeating this to myself since the day of my arrival. Valerian is the closest friend I have here in the city. But, every time, I postpone the visit because of some
I am a bit disappointed that she hasn't said a word of thanks. I remark, "This isn't a good place to lie down and look at the sky, by day or by night. You can take it from me: I know about it."
As between the iron steps of the bridge, in the dialogue, intervals of emptiness open between one speech and the next.
"You know about looking at the sky? Why? Are you an astronomer?"
"No, another kind of observer." And I point out to her on the collar of my uniform the insignia of the artillery. "Days under bombardments, watching the shrapnel fly."
Her gaze passes from the insignia to the epaulets that I
----
don't have, then to the not very obvious chevrons of rank sewn on my sleeves. "You come from the front, Lieutenant?"
"Alex Zinnober," I introduce myself. "I don't know if I can be called a lieutenant. In our regiment, ranks have been abolished, but orders change all the time. For the moment, I'm a soldier with two stripes on his sleeves, that's all."
"I'm Irina Piperin, as I was also before the revolution. For the future, I don't know. I used to design fabrics, and as long as there's a shortage of cloth, I'll make designs for the air."
"With the revolution, there are people who change so much they become unrecognizable, and other people who feel they are the same selves as before. It must be a sign that they were prepared in advance for the new times. Is that the case?"
She makes no reply. I add, "Unless it's their total rejection that preserves them from changes. Is that your situation?"
"I... You tell me first: how much do you think you have changed?"
"Not much. I realize I have retained certain points of honor from before: catch a woman about to fall, for example, even if nowadays nobody says thank you."
"We all have moments of weakness, women and men, and it isn't impossible, Lieutenant, that I may have an opportunity to return your kindness of a moment ago." In her voice there is a hint of harshness, or perhaps of pique.
At this point the dialogue—which has concentrated all attention on itself, almost making one forget the visual upheaval of the city—could break off; the usual military vehicles cross the square and the page, separating us, or else the usual lines of women outside the shops or the usual processions of workers carrying signs. Irina is far away now, the hat with the rose is sailing over a sea of
----
gray caps, of helmets, kerchiefs; I try to follow her, but she doesn't turn around.
Several paragraphs ensue, bristling with names of generals and deputies, concerned with the shelling and retreats from the front, about schisms and unifications in the parties represented in the Council, punctuated by climatic annotations: downpours, frosts, racing clouds, windstorms. All this, in any case, solely as a frame for my moods: a festive abandonment to the wave of events, or of withdrawal into myself as if concentrating myself into an obsessive pattern, as if everything around me served only to disguise me, to hide me, like the sandbag defenses that are being raised more or less on all sides (the city seems to be preparing to fight street by street), the fences that every night billposters of various factions cover with manifestos that are immediately soaked by the rain and become illegible because of the absorbent paper and the cheap ink.
Every time I pass the building that houses the Heavy Industry Commission I say to myself: Now I'll go and call on my friend Valerian. I have been repeating this to myself since the day of my arrival. Valerian is the closest friend I have here in the city. But, every time, I postpone the visit because of some
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