Darkness at Noon - Arthur Koestler [76]
painfully in the direction whence had come Gletkin's voice, "except to prove once more my devotion to the Party." "There is only one proof you can give," came Gletkin's voice, "a complete confession. We have heard enough of your ‘oppositional attitude' and your lofty motives. What we need is a complete, public confession of your criminal activities, which were the necessary outcome of that attitude. The only way in which you can still serve the Party is as a warning example--by demonstrating to the masses, in your own person, the consequences to which opposition to the Party policy inevitably leads." Rubashov thought of No. 1's cold snack. His inflamed facial nerves throbbed at full pressure, but the pain was no longer acute and burning; it now came in dull, numbing blows. He thought of No. 1's cold snack, and the muscles of his face distorted themselves into a grimace. "I can't confess to crimes I have not committed," he said flatly. "No," sounded Gletkin's voice."No, that you certainly can't"--and it seemed to Rubashov that for the first time he heard something like mockery in that voice. From that moment onwards Rubashov's recollection of the hearing was rather hazy. After the sentence "that you certainly can't," which had remained in his ear because of its peculiar intonation, there was a gap of uncertain length in his memory. Later on it seemed to him that he had fallen asleep and he even remembered a strangely pleasant dream. It must have lasted only a few seconds--a loose, timeless sequence of luminous landscapes, with the familiar poplars which had lined the drive of his father's estate, and a special kind of white cloud which as a boy he had once seen above them. The next thing he remembered was the presence of a third person in the room, and Gletkin's voice booming over him--Gletkin must have stood up and bent forward over his desk: "I beg you to attend the proceedings. ... Do you recognize this person?" Rubashov nodded. He had at once recognized Hare-lip, although he was not wearing the waterproof in which he used to wrap himself, with freezingly hunched shoulders, during his walks in the yard. A familiar row of figures flashed into Rubashov's mind: 2-3; 1-1; 4-3; 1-5; 3-2; 2-4 ... "Hare-lip sends you his greetings." On what occasion had No. 402 given him this message? "When and where have you known him?" It cost Rubashov a certain effort to speak; the bitter taste had remained on his parched tongue: "I have seen him repeatedly from my window, walking in the yard." "And you have not known him before?" Hare-lip stood at the door, at a distance of a few steps behind Rubashov's chair; the light of the reflector fell full on him. His face, usually yellow, was chalky white, his nose pointed, the split upper-lip with the weal of flesh trembled over the naked gum. His hands hung slackly to his knees; Rubashov, who now had his back turned to the lamp, saw him like an apparition in the footlights of a stage. A new row of figures went through Rubashov's memory: "4-5; 3-5; 4-3 ..."--"was tortured yesterday". Almost simultaneously, the shadow of a memory which be could not seize passed through his mind-the memory of having once seen the living original of this human wreck, long before he had entered cell No. 404. "I don't know exactly," he answered hesitantly to Gletkin's question. "Now that I see him close to, it seems to me that I have met him somewhere already." Even before he had finished the phrase, Rubashov felt it would have been better not to have spoken it. He wished intensely that Gletkin would let him have a few minutes to pullhimself together. Gletkin's way of rapping out his questions in a rapid, pauseless sequence called to his mind the image of a bird of prey hacking at its victim with its beak. "Where have you met this man last? The exactness of your memory was once proverbial in the Party." Rubashov was silent. He racked his memory, but could not place anywhere this apparition in the glaring light, with the trembling lips. Hare-lip did not move. He passed his tongue over the red weal on his upper-lip; his