Through the glass walls of the buildings, a windy, feverishly pink, disturbing sunset. I’ve turned my chair so the pink won’t get in my eyes and leafed through these notes. I see: again, I’ve forgotten that I’m not writing all this for myself but for you, unknown readers, with love and pity—for you, who are still stumbling through the distant centuries below.
So I’ll explain the Day of Unanimity, our glorious holiday. I’ve always loved it, ever since I was a child. I believe that for us, it’s something like what the Ancients called “Easter.” I remember how we would make hourly calendars for ourselves on the day before, then eagerly cross out hour by hour in festive anticipation: it was one hour closer, there was one hour less to wait . . . If I could be sure that no one would see it, I swear, I would make myself a little calendar like that now and watch it, seeing how many hours were left until tomorrow, until I could see, although from afar . . .
(I’ve been distracted: they just brought me a brand-new unif, fresh from the workshop. According to custom, we all receive new unifs for tomorrow’s festivities. The hallways are filled with footsteps, happy cries, and noise.)
To continue. Tomorrow I will witness the same spectacle I see every year, newly exciting each time: the mighty Chalice of Unity, hands raised in reverence. Tomorrow is the day of the Benefactor’s annual reelection. Tomorrow we will once again hand the Benefactor the key to the unshakable fortress of our happiness.
It goes without saying that this is nothing like the lawless, disorganized elections the Ancients used to have where—don’t laugh—they didn’t even know the results ahead of time. Could there be anything more inane than building a state on completely haphazard happenstance? And still, it turns out that centuries needed to pass before people could understand this.
Do I need to add that in this, as in everything else, we have no room for randomness? Any kind of unexpected events are completely out of the question. And the election itself is mostly symbolic: it’s to remind us that we are a unified, powerful, million-celled organism—that we, in the words of the ancient Gospels, are one Church. Because there has not been a single case in the entire history of the One State when even a single voice dared to disrupt the grand unison.
They say that the Ancients conducted their elections in secret, hiding like thieves. Some of our historians claim that they attended election festivities completely disguised (I imagine this dark and fantastic spectacle: at night, on a square, figures creeping along the walls in dark capes; the crimson flames of their torches ducking down in the wind . . .). Why did they need all that mystery? We still do not know. Most likely, their elections were tied to some sort of mystical, superstitious, and perhaps criminal rites. We have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. We celebrate our elections openly, honestly, in the light of day. I see everyone vote for the Benefactor; everyone sees me vote for the Benefactor—and could it be any different when “everyone” and “I” are all one “We”? It’s so much nobler, loftier, and more honest than the Ancients’ cowardly, thieving “secret.” Plus: it’s so much more efficient. Because even if we were to imagine the impossible—dissonance in our usual monophony—the invisible Guardians are here, too, among us: they can immediately intercede and save those mistaken numbers from taking their next missteps—and the One State, from them. And finally, one last thing . . .
Through the wall on my left: a woman hurriedly unbuttoned her unif in front of the closet mirror, and, for a moment, in passing: her eyes, her lips, two pointed, pink kernels. And then the blinds fell and instantly, everything from yesterday came flooding back to me, I don’t know what “one last thing . . .” is anymore and I don’t want to think about it at all! All I want is I. I want her to be with me at any and every minute—always, with me and me only. And what I just wrote about Unanimity—all of that was beside the point, it doesn’t matter—I want to cross it all out, tear it up, throw it out. Because I know (this may be blasphemy, but it’s true): it’s only a holiday if she’s there, only with her by my side, shoulder to shoulder.
Without her, tomorrow’s sun will be just a tin disk in the sky, and the sky some tin painted blue, and I . . .
I grabbed the telephone. “I, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me. It’s so late!”
“I was hoping it isn’t too late. I wanted to ask you . . . I want you to be with me tomorrow. My darling . . .”
“My darling” came out very softly. And for some reason, something from this morning at the hangar flashed in my mind: as a joke, somebody had put a watch under a hundred-ton hammer—it flew up, blowing wind in our faces—then fell at full force, only to stop just above the delicate watch with a hundred-ton tenderness.
Pause. I feel like I can hear somebody whispering in her room. And then her voice: “No, I can’t. Please understand: I would . . . But no, I can’t. Why not? You’ll see tomorrow.”
