Darkness at Noon Read Free Page B

particular. period: “Here, citizens, you see the objective factors which conditioned this historical process.” And, pointing with his ruler to a grey foggy landscape between the second and third lobe of No. 1’s brain: “Now here you see the subjective reflection of these factors. It was this which in the second quarter of the twentieth century led to the triumph of the totalitarian principle in the East of Europe.” Until this stage was reached, politics would remain bloody dilettantism, mere superstition and black magic. ...
    Rubashov heard the sound of several people marching down the corridor in step. His first thought was: now the beating-up will start. He stopped in the middle of the cell, listening, his chin pushed forward. The marching steps came to a halt before one of the neighboring cells, a low command was heard, the keys jangled. Then there was silence.
    Rubashov stood stiffly between the bed and the bucket, held his breath, and waited for the first scream. He remembered that the first scream, in which terror still predominated over physical pain, was usually the worst; what followed was already more bearable, one got used to it and after a time one could even draw conclusions on the method of torture from the tone and rhythm of the screams. Towards the end, most people behaved in the same way, however different they were in temperament and voice: the screams became weaker, changed over into whining and choking. Usually the door would slam soon after. The keys would jangle again; and the first scream of the next victim often came even before they had touched him, at the mere sight of the men in the doorway.
    Rubashov stood in the middle of his cell and waited for the first scream. He rubbed his glasses on his sleeve and said to himself that he would not scream this time either, whatever happened to him. He repeated this sentence as if praying with a rosary. He stood and waited; the scream still did not come. Then he heard a faint clanging, a voice murmured something, the cell-door slammed. The footsteps moved to the next cell.
    Rubashov went to the spy-hole and looked into the corridor. The men stopped nearly opposite his cell, at No. 407. There was the old warder with two orderlies dragging a tub of tea, a third carrying a basket with slices of black bread, and two uniformed officials with pistols. There was no beating-up; they were bringing breakfast. ...
    No. 407 was just being given bread. Rubashov could not see him. No. 407 was presumably standing in the regulation position, a step behind the door; Rubashov could only see his forearms and hands. The arms were bare and very thin; like two parallel sticks, they stuck out of the doorway into the corridor. The palms of the invisible No. 407 were turned upwards, curved in the shape of a bowl. When he had taken the bread, he clasped his hands and withdrew into the darkness of his cell. The door slammed.
    Rubashov abandoned the spy-hole and resumed his marching up and down. He ceased rubbing his spectacles on his sleeve, put them in place, breathed deeply and with relief. He whistled a tune and waited for his breakfast. He remembered with a slight feeling of uneasiness those thin arms and the curved hands; they reminded him vaguely of something he could not define. The outlines of those stretched-out hands and even the shadows on them were familiar to him—familiar and yet gone from his memory like an old tune or the smell of a narrow street in a harbour.

7
    The procession had unlocked and slammed a row of doors, but not yet his. Rubashov went back to the Judas, to see whether they were coming at last; he was looking forward to the hot tea. The tub had been steaming, and thin slices of lemon had floated on its surface. He took off his pince-nez and pressed his eye to the spy-hole. His range of sight held four of the cells opposite: Nos. 401 to 407. Above the cells ran a narrow iron gallery; behind it were more cells, those on the second floor. The