Fog
Thou
A Decidedly Absurd Adventure
I awoke at dawn. The rose-colored firmament looked into my eyes. Everything was beautiful， round. "O-90 is to come tonight. Surely I am healthy again." I smiled and fell asleep. The Morning Bell！ I got up； everything looked different. Through the glass of the ceiling， through the walls， nothing could be seen but fog—fog everywhere， strange clouds， becoming heavier and nearer； the boundary between earth and sky disappeared. Everything seemed to be floating and thawing and falling...Not a thing to hold on to. No houses to be seen； they were all dissolved in the fog like crystals of salt in water. On the sidewalks and inside the houses dark figures， like suspended particles in a strange milky solution， were hanging， below， above， up to the tenth floor. Everything seemed to be covered with smoke， as though a fire were raging somewhere noiselessly.
At eleven-forty-five exactly （I looked at the clock particularly at that time to catch the figures， to save at least the figures）， at eleven-forty-five， just before leaving， according to our Table of Hours， to go and occupy myself with physical labor， I dropped into my room for a moment. Suddenly the telephone rang. A voice—a long needle slowly penetrating my heart：
"Oh， you are at home？ I am very glad！ Wait for me at the corner. We shall go together Where？ Well， you"ll see.
"You know perfectly well that I am going to work now."
"You know perfectly well that you"ll do as I say！ Au revoir. In two minutes！..."
I stood at the corner. I had to wait to try to make clear to her that only the United State directs me， not she. "You"ll do as I say！" How sure she is！ One hears it in her voice. And what if... ？
Unifs， dull gray as if woven of damp fog， would appear for a second at my side and then soundlessly redis-solve. I was unable to turn my eyes away from the clock ...I seemed myself to have become that sharp， quivering hand that marked the seconds. Ten， eight minutes ...three ...two minutes to twelve....Of course！ I was late！ Oh， how I hated her. Yet I had to wait to prove that I...
A red line in the milky whiteness of the fog-like blood， like a wound made by a sharp knife—her lips.
"I made you wait， I think. And now you are late for your work anyway？"
"How...？ Well， yes， it is too late now."
I glanced at her lips in silence. All women are lips， lips only. Some are rosy lips， tense and round， a ring， a tender fence separating one from the world. But these！ A second ago they were not here， and suddenly... the slash of a knife！ I seemed even to see the sweet， dripping blood
She came nearer. She leaned gently against my shoulder； we became one. Something streamed from her into me. I felt， I knew， it should be so. Every fiber of my nervous system told me this， every hair on my head， every painfully sweet heartbeat. And what a joy it was to submit to what should be. A fragment of iron ore probably feels the same joy of submission to precise， inevitable law when it clings to a lodestone. The same joy is in a stone which， thrown aloft， hesitates a little at the height of its flight and then rushes down to the ground. It is the same with a man when in his final convulsion he takes a last deep breath and dies.
I remember I smiled vaguely and said for no reason at all， "Fog ...very."
"Thou lovest fog， dost thou？"
This ancient， long-forgotten thou—the thou of a master to his slave—penetrated me slowly， sharply....Yes， I was a slave....This， too， was inevitable， was good.
"yes， good..." I said aloud to myself， and then to her， "I hate fog. I am afraid of fog."
Then you love it. For if you fear it because it is stronger than you， hate it because you fear it， you love it. For you cannot subject it to yourself. One loves only the things one cannot conquer."
"Yes， that is so. That is why...that is precisely why I..."
We were walking—as one. Somewhere beyond the fog the sun was singing in a faint tone， gradually swelling， filling the air with tension and with pearl and gold and rose and red....The whole world seemed to be one unembraceable woman， and we who were in her body were not yet born； we were ripening in joy. It was clear to me， absolutely clear， that everything existed only for me： the sun， the fog， the gold—for me. I did not ask where we were going； what did it matter？ It was a pleasure to walk， to ripen， to become stronger and more tense....
"Here ..." I-330 stopped at a door. "It so happens that today there is someone on duty who... I told you about him in the Ancient House."
Carefully guarding the forces ripening within me， I read the sign： "Medical Bureau." Only automatically I understood.
