Ferdydurke (15 page)

"Are you really going to take on with your synthesis these fifty disparate pieces, this soulless, for-hire combination of (dp + pd) to the nth power?"

It was the universal Synthetologue's attribute never to lose hope. He invited Flora Gente to our table, treated her to a glass of Cinzano, and, to test her, he began synthetically:

"The soul, the soul."

She answered in a similar but slightly different vein, she answered with part of something.

"I!" the Professor said earnestly, searchingly, and in the hope of awakening her dissipated self. "I!"

She replied:

"Oh, 'you,' very good, five zlotys."

"Unity!" heatedly exclaimed the Professor. "Higher Unity! The One!"

"It's all one to me," she said indifferently, "whether it's an old man or a child."

We breathlessly watched this hellish analyst of the night whom anti-Filidor had trained as he pleased, perhaps he had even raised her for himself since her childhood.

The Creator of Synthetic Science, however, would not desist. A period of great stress and strain followed. He read her the first two chants from
Spirit King,
and for this she demanded ten zlotys. He had a long and inspired conversation with her about Almighty Love, the Love which embraces and unites us all, for which she took eleven zlotys. He read to her two run-of-the-mill novels by the leading female authors on the subject of revival through Love, for which she charged a hundred and fifty zlotys, and she wouldn't be talked down one whit. When, however, he tried to awaken her dignity, she demanded no less, no more than fifty-two zlotys.

"One has to pay for kinkiness, you old fogey," she said, "but it's tax-free."

And letting loose her dumb owl eyes, she remained impassive, expenses grew, while somewhere downtown anti-Filidor laughed up his sleeve at the hopelessness of these efforts and measures...

At a conference in which Dr. Lopatkin and the three Docents took part, the illustrious researcher reported his defeat in the following words:

"This has cost me, in all, a few hundred zlotys, I truly don't see any way of synthesizing her, I tried all higher Unities in vain—Humanity for example, but she keeps turning everything into money and giving back the change. Humanity priced at forty-two zlotys ceases to be a Unity. I really don't know what to do. Meanwhile, my wife is at the hospital losing what remains of her inner cohesion. Her leg sets off for a walk round the room, and after a nap—my wife, not the leg, of course—must hold on to it with her hands, but her hands don't want to do it, what a terrible anarchy, what a terrible free-for-all.

Dr. of Medicine T. Poklewski Meanwhile, anti-Filidor is spreading rumors that you, Professor, are a disagreeable maniac.

Docent Lopafkin However, could you possibly get through to her by means of money? Since she changes everything into money couldn't you work on her with money? I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure what I mean, but there is something like this in nature—for example, I once had, as a patient, a woman who suffered from shyness, I couldn't treat her with audacity because she could not assimilate audacity, so I gave her such a dose of shyness that she couldn't stand it any longer, and therefore, because she couldn't, she became audacious, all of a sudden she became exceedingly audacious. The best method
per se
is to turn the sleeve and its lining inside out, be that as it may. Be that as it may. You'd have to synthesize her with money, however, I admit, I don't see how...

Filidor Money, money ... Yet money is always a number, a sum, it has nothing in common with Unity, actually only the grosz is indivisible, but the grosz isn't going to impress her. Unless . . . unless . . . gentlemen, what if I gave her a sum that would spin her head? Spin her head? Gentlemen ... enough to spin her head?

We fell silent, Filidor jumped to his feet, his black beard fluttering. He succumbed to one of those manic states to which a genius succumbs regularly every seven years. He sold two of his townhouses and a villa in the suburbs, and then he changed the sum of 850,000 zlotys thus obtained into single zlotys. Poklewski watched this in wonder, this shallow physician from the provinces had never been able to understand genius, he never understood and never would. And in the meantime the philosopher, self-assured, issued a sarcastic invitation to anti-Filidor, who, responding to sarcasm with sarcasm, arrived at nine-thirty sharp in the lounge of the restaurant Alkazar, where the decisive experiment was to take place. The scientists did not shake hands, and the master of Analysis broke into a dry and malicious laughter:

"Well, go for it, sir, go for it! My girl isn't so eager to compose as your wife is to decompose, I'm quite sure on that score."

And he too was gradually falling into a hypomanic state. Dr. Poklewski held the pen. Lopatkin held the paper.

Professor Filidor approached the matter at first by placing on the table only a single zloty. Gente didn't react. He placed a second zloty, nothing, he added a third, again nothing, but at four zlotys she said:

"Ooh, four zlotys."

At five she yawned, and at six she coolly said:

"Now there, litde old man, you're off into the clouds again?"

Not until ninety-seven did we note the first signs of surprise, and at hundred and fifteen her eyes, hitherto wandering between Dr. Poklewski, the Docent, and myself, were now beginning, ever so slightly, to synthesize on the money.

At one hundred thousand Filidor breathed heavily, anti-Filidor became somewhat anxious, while the courtesan, heterogeneous up to this point, showed some signs of concentration. She was riveted as she watched the growing heap, which by now was no longer merely a heap, and although she tried to count, her arithmetic didn't quite add up. The sum ceased to be a mere sum, it was becoming something unfathomable, unthinkable, something more than a sum, expanding the brain with its enormity, equal to the enormity of the Heavens. Flora let go a hollow groan. The Analyst lunged to rescue her, but both doctors held him back with all their force—he begged her in vain to break up the whole into hundreds or five hundreds, but the whole would not be split up. When the triumphant high priest of logarithmic knowledge dispensed everything he had and sealed the heap, or rather the enormity, this mount, this Mount Sinai of cash, with one single, indivisible grosz, it was as if a God had entered the courtesan, she rose to her feet and displayed all the synthetic symptoms—crying, sighing, smiling, pondering, and she said:

"This is me, gentlemen. This is me. This is my higher self."

Filidor shouted in triumph, and then anti-Filidor, with a cry of horror, tore away from the medics' arms and slapped Filidor in the face.

The shot was a thunderbolt—it was the lightning of synthesis torn from analytic entrails, shattering the murky darkness. The Docent and the medics, highly moved, congratulated the Professor thus defiled at last, while his sworn enemy writhed by the wall and groaned in torment. But once the course was set on the path of honor, no amount of howling could stop it, because the affair, thus far not one of honor, now rolled onto the customary tracks of honor.

Professor Dr. G. L. Filidor from Leyden nominated two seconds in the persons of Doc. Lopafkin and myself—Professor Dr. P. T. Momsen with the genteel title of anti-Filidor nominated two seconds in the persons of both his assistants—Filidor's seconds honorably called out anti-Filidor's seconds, while the latter called out Filidor's seconds. At each of these honorable steps synthesis grew. The Colombian writhed as if on hot coals. The Leydenian, however, smiling and in silence, stroked his long beard. While in the city hospital the sick Mrs. Professor began to unite her parts, with a barely audible voice she demanded milk, and her physicians took heart. Honor peeked from behind the clouds and sweetly smiled on people. The final encounter would take place the following Tuesday morning at seven sharp.

Dr. Roklewski was to hold the pen, Docent Lopatkin the pistols, Poklewski was to hold the paper, and I the coats. The undefeatable combatant from under the sign of Synthesis entertained no doubts. I remember what he told me the previous morning.

"My son," he said, "he can be felled just as I can, but whoever falls, my spirit will be victorious, for this is not about death but about the quality of death, and the quality of death will be synthetic. If he falls he will pay tribute to Synthesis—if he kills me he will kill me in a synthetic mode. Thus my victory will continue beyond the grave."

Thus, deeply moved and wanting to celebrate the more splendidly his moment of glory, he invited the two ladies, i.e., his wife and Flora, to watch from the sidelines, in the role of ordinary attendants. Yet ill forebodings gnawed at me. I dreaded something—but what was it? I had no idea, the fear of not knowing tormented me all night, and not until I was on the field did I realize why. The morning was picture-perfect, bright and clear. The spiritual opponents stood opposite each other, Filidor bowed to anti-Filidor, anti-Filidor bowed to Filidor. It was then that I realized what I had been dreading. It was symmetry—the situation was symmetrical, and therein lay its strength, but also its weakness.

The situation was such that each of Filidor's moves had to correspond to each of anti-Filidor's analogous moves, and Filidor had the first move. If Filidor bowed, anti-Filidor also would have to bow. If Filidor fired, anti-Filidor also would have to fire. And everything, I stress, had to occur along the axis that led through both combatants, which was the axis of the entire situation. Well now! What will happen if anti-Filidor ducks to the side? If he jumps aside? What if he plays a prank and somehow escapes the iron laws of symmetry as well as analogy? Indeed, what passions and treacheries might lurk in anti-Filidor's brainy head? I was fighting with my thoughts when suddenly Professor Filidor raised his pistol and aimed concentrically at his opponent's heart and fired. He fired and missed. He missed. Then, in his turn, the Analyst raised his pistol and aimed at his opponent's heart. Yes, yes, we were almost ready to proclaim victory. Yes, yes, it seemed that since the other had synthetically fired at the heart, this one must also fire at the heart. It seemed there was no other solution, there was no side wicket for the intellect. But suddenly, in the blink of an eye and with the greatest effort, the Analyst uttered a squeak, whined, deviated slightly to the side, led the barrel of the pistol away from the axis and shot to the side, at what?—at the little finger of Mrs. Professor Filidor, who stood nearby with Flora Gente. The shot was masterful! The finger fell-off. Mrs. Filidor, surprised, lifted her hand to her lips. While we, the seconds, momentarily lost our composure and gave a shout of admiration.

Then something terrible happened. The High Professor of Synthesis could not contain himself. Fascinated by the Analyst's masterful aim, by symmetry, bewildered by our cry of admiration, also veered his aim to one side and shot at the little finger of Flora Gente's hand, then laughed briefly, dryly, gutturally. Gente lifted her hand to her lips, we gave a shout of admiration.

The Analyst then fired again, knocking off another of Mrs. Professor's fingers, and she lifted her hand to her lips—we gave a shout of admiration, a quarter of a second later, the Synthetist's shot, fired with unerring certainty from a distance of seventeen meters, knocked off Flora Gente's analogous finger. Gente lifted her hand to her lips, we gave a shout of admiration. And on it went. The firing continued nonstop, fast and furious and as glorious as glory itself, and fingers, ears, noses, teeth fell like leaves tossed by the wind while we, the seconds, could hardly keep up with our shouts torn from within us by the lightning marksmanship. Both ladies were shorn bare of all their natural appendages and protrusions, they didn't fall dead simply because they too could not keep up, but anyway, I think they were delighted—being exposed to such marksmanship. Finally the bullets ran out. With the last shot the master from Colombo pierced the apex of Mrs. Professor Filidor's lung, and the master from Leyden immediately responded by piercing the apex of Flora Gente's lung, once more we gave a shout of admiration, and silence fell. Both torsos died and slid to the ground—the duelists looked at each other.

Now what? They looked at each other, and neither knew—what now? Actually what? There were no more bullets. In any case both corpses already lay on the ground. There was nothing to do. It was almost ten o'clock. Actually Analysis had won, but so what? Absolutely nothing. Synthesis could have won equally well, and there would have been nothing to that, either. Filidor picked up a stone and threw it at a sparrow, but he missed and the sparrow flew away. The sun began to scorch us, anti-Filidor picked up a clod and threw it at a tree stump—he hit it. In the meantime a hen chanced Filidor's way, he aimed at it, hit it, the hen ran away and hid in the bushes. The scientists left their positions and departed—each in his own direction.

By evening anti-Filidor was in Jeziorna, Filidor in Vaver. One hunted for crows by a haystack, the other found an out-of-the-way lamppost and aimed at it from a distance of fifty paces.

And so they wandered around the world aiming with whatever they could at whatever they could. They sang songs, but they liked breaking windows best, they also liked to stand on a balcony and spit upon the hats of passersby, even more so if they were able to target some fat cats riding by in a carriage. Filidor became so good at it that he could spit at somebody on a balcony from the sidewalk. Anti-Filidor could extinguish a candle by throwing a box of matches at the flame. But best of all they liked to hunt frogs with a BB gun or to hunt sparrows with a bow and arrow, or else they threw pieces of paper and blades of grass from a bridge onto the water. But their greatest delight was to buy a child's balloon and run after it through fields and forests—hey, ho! and watch it burst with a bang as if shot with an invisible bullet.

And whenever anyone from the world of science reminisced with them about their splendid past, their spiritual battles, about Analysis and Synthesis and their glory irretrievably lost, they would reply dreamily: