Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

1

     When fourteen pairs of nervous hands, gloved and bare, finally pulled out from underneath the front platform of streetcar No. 18 the blood-spattered body of lzolda Morgan, her legs horribly cut off below the groin and dragging along on several tendons, all those people suddenly had an unpleasant feeling that a faux pas had been committed.

     The girl was twenty-three years of age, had masses of chestnut hair strewn in a disorderly fashion about an unimpeachably beautiful face, and slender, magnificent legs, reaching from within the hips up through her body to the level of her breasts — the unmistakable mark of a thoroughbred.

     Everything following this event took place too quickly.

     The ambulance came and went, taking with it the contents of the entire incident. An hour later both legs were amputated, while the ailing woman, placed in a private convalescent room of the clinic, fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

2

     Berg, amusing himself that week in another city, was notified of the incident on the second day by a vague and brief letter, mentioning some accident and advising him to return immediately.

     The hubbub of the railway station, the slamming of doors, the odour of fresh paint, the changing kaleidoscope of trees on the screen of the window pane, like the beads of a rosary strung onto the thread of a hollow disquiet, faded away into a long perpendicular line of cleavage.

     After being announced to the doctor by an orderly, he listened with total composure to the technical details. Having heard the explanations to the end, he asked for permission to see her.

     He entered the private room accompanied by the doctor. The sick woman was awake. She was laying on her back, eyes wide open.

     Berg stood at the foot of the bed. He had thought of a greeting, but at this moment could not remember anything appropriate.

     (. . . . . heavy, bushy chestnut candles in a long, ruthlessly perpendicular perspective, cool, damp taste of lips pressed against lips, the warmth of a small hand felt through the suede of a glove . . . . . remember?)

     He even tried to smile, but his eyes fell at this very moment onto the drooping curve of the blanket, outlining an inconceivable hollowness below the hips.

     (God, my God . . . . . let me not think . . . . .)

     Some kind of a sticky, sweet fluid crept up his larynx.

     And again chestnuts, and again the taste of damp lips, and a long slender leg darting out of the sunny frothy skirts.

     (. . . . . Shhhhhh, surely I’m not going to scream).

     What a funny face the doctor has. The mustache on his left side droops like a may bug’s, and on the end of his nose there’s a tiny pimple.

     Suddenly he met her eyes, the eyes of a frightened, whipped dog (   in his father’s courtyard . . . . .they drowned his puppies) . . . . .), begging for mercy, staring at him in tense expectation.

     He felt himself blushing like a schoolboy under this stare and becoming confused, aware that he had been standing there for a few minutes, that it was time he said something, and that in the end he wouldn’t say anything. Suddenly he felt a strong desire to run away.

     (. . . . . on the street, people, carriages, rumble, trrrr . . . . .)

     Why did that doctor have such a strange expression on his face? O, there’s the knob, just turn it towards you now.

     He was running down the stairs, four at a time, until he found himself on the street mingling with the motley feverish crowd.

     He felt red hot like a toredor’s cape. And over the inflated “I” of the city there hung a gigantic sun dot. People were running, walking, pushing, cars barked, streetcars jingled, they were spitting out and swallowing new loads of people at the shops and they passed him by monotonous, grinding the polished tracks.

3

     Late in the evening, a senior orderly of the clinic, Timothy Lerche, a broad-shouldered old stager with a pock-marked face and a red beard, was visited by a well-dressed young man, who called him aside, while twirling between his fingers a five hundred frank note, and asked for a particular favour.

     Timothy Lerche assured the stranger that he was completely at his disposal. Then the stranger, taking the orderly’s arm in a friendly gesture, explained that he was a relative of the victim involved in a streetcar accident — the lzolda Morgan who had been admitted to the hospital two days ago. He would like if at all possible (the note, at this moment rustled attractively), to have both his cousin’s amputated legs.

     Timothy Lerche manifested absolutely no surprise, politely bowed his head in understanding and warned the young man that he didn’t know whether the limbs had or had not been disposed of along with other odds and ends, after which he departed bidding the visitor to take a seat.

     He returned in twenty minutes, carrying under his arm a long box carefully wrapped in grey paper. The parcel could easily pass for a package from a modern ready-to-wear store, and the pink ribbon tied around it gave it an elegant appearance.

     Timothy Lerche handed over the parcel in silence.

     Five hundred francs drowned inside his coat pocket. He even asked the young man if he would like someone to deliver the parcel to his home.

     The newcomer however did not accept the proferred service but, placing the parcel under his arm, left by himself, escorted to the door by the orderly and two porters, all bowing cordially.

4

     In the office where Berg worked the news of the tragedy travelled like lightening and created around his person an atmosphere of hushed whispers and silent sympathy.

     The City Electric Co. Ltd., where Berg was one of the twelve engineers on the staff, offered him a month’s holiday. Berg refused. He came to work very early, as before. In the evenings he was not seen by anyone anywhere. His colleagues, who rashly decided to pay him a visit at a late hour, found a note on his door saying: “No visitors”.

     It was common knowledge that he had not once visited lzolda at the hospital since the first time, and every possible reason was put forward in explanation. However, his attitude was the same as it always used to be, completely normal; he talked and smiled. In time, the general consensus was that his love for Izolda was after all not so great. This conviction soon became generally accepted. People quickly ceased to be concerned about him. Generally speaking, those around him felt slightly resentful that he so easily accepted the situation and so quickly forgot it.

5

     The legs were prodigiously long and unusually white. Tapering off into a tiny, narrow highly arched foot surmounted by slender ankles, they burst into a perfectly shaped calves, very long, firm and vigorous. From slim white knees emerged white thighs of a velvety gloss and covered with a network of almost invisible blue veins, giving this female body the look of marble. Tiny feet were still immersed in shallow black slippers; the part above the knees was still encircled by black stockings as it undoubtedly was even at the moment when it still held up their owner. The amputation took place so quickly and had to be performed just below the groin, so that a total baring of the legs was not necessary. Placed on the couch and crossed carelessly, covered at the top with a large blanket, they looked like the limbs of a sleeping live woman.

     Berg held vigil beside them for hours on end. He was familiar with each muscle and called it by name. Passing his hand along the quadriceps cruris, he lightly caressed with his fingers the inner curve of the thigh, at the point where the groin is joined to the knee by the narrow, hardly discernible muscle gracillis, also known by the name of “defensor virginitatis”, the weakest of muscles in the female leg.

     His whole painful love for lzolda, was now concentrated in her legs. He lay for hours on the couch, snuggling his lips to the soft, sweet scented skin of the rose-coloured thighs, he caressed them, as he had done while they were still her property. He thought very rarely about lzolda herself. To be precise, he did not think about her at all. The scene at the clinic had left him with nothing save feelings of estrangement and disgust. Of what concern to him really was that other torn half of a woman, a shapeless trunk, hideous and tragic. Snuggled up in sweet weariness to her magnificent feet, which he owned independently, Berg felt utterly happy.

     The fact that lzolda’s legs were as fresh and pink after two weeks as they were after the first day of the operation seemed to him perfectly natural. He could not have pictured anything different. It would seem as nonsensical as if someone had tried to claim that Nika Fidiaszowa would disintegrate merely because she lacked a head. Besides, these were once the legs of a live woman, merely separated from the rest of her now by a simple accident and not ceasing to be an organic part of her, joined forever within the living unity of an indissoluble personality.

6

     Twelve o’clock at night. Berg is on duty in the factory. He could in fact sit in his room, upstairs, but somewhere deeply inbedded in him lies a fear of solitude, even though he does not allow this thought to dominate his consciousness.

     Bright lights and the rumble of engines produce a dreamy, soothing sensation. Berg walks alternatively between two rows of the labouring machines.

     The whistle of whirling spokes and levers.

     The music of red hot steel.

     He gazes momentarily into a fast spinning wheel, and experiences a slight dizziness. A moment later, he notices a gigantic piston rising and falling with precision. It sounds hollow and breathless. Berg identifies it with sexual intercourse. With a keen sense of horror he watches the huge piston tirelessly rising and falling. The machine is copulating. Why do they not multiply? Berg asks himself, feeling a swarm of cold ants creeping up his back. Wild, sterile beasts, he adds, not looking around as his pace quickens.

     But the end of the aisle is nowhere in sight. To left and right levers fall and rise at a mad pace. Berg feels a gust of harsh and ruthless hatred blowing from them. The eternal hatred of the workman towards his exploiter. He feels small and helpless among these creatures of steel, thrown to them as their prey. He wants to scream, but restrains himself with the last bit of sense left in him. They hate me, he thinks clearly, but they’re fastened down and can’t do anything.

     In order to prove to himself that he is not afraid of them, he stops in front of one machine and looks at it mockingly for a moment.

     Here the rotation of the wheels is somewhat slower, almost lazy. The beast is lurking and waiting. Berg suddenly feels an irresistible urge to touch the spokes. He cannot tear his eyes from the steel piston.

     I’ll only touch it and immediately withdraw my hand, he thinks clearly. He wants to tear himself away, and run, but he cannot.

     Meanwhile the wheel seems to turn more slowly, more lazily. The huge arm of the spoke is lengthening, lengthening . . . . . One can feel its cold breath. In a moment it will touch his face. Berg suddenly feels a sharp pain in his shoulder. Someone’s bony fingers throw him aside with inconceivable strength, and he hears a harsh, hoarse voice, like the trumpet of Jericho.

     “Careful! You would have been caught in the machine”.

     He sees looming above him the face of a workman blackened with soot, large blue eyes set underneath puckered eyebrows looking at him intently. “You may as well go upstairs, we’ll take care of this ourselves”, says the voice in the same commanding tone that makes Berg feel submissive and weak, like an infant.

     The strong bony hand leads him, practically lifts him out of the workshop and into the courtyard. “Thank you”, says Berg quietly and sees above him the giant black face of the sky pock-marked by stars.

7

     In the week immediately preceeding this incident, Berg had left the factory earlier than usual and headed for the opposite side of the city.

     The gold autumn day smells of hibiscus. The endless calm of the air leaves one restless and terrified. Everything is drowsy, motionless, not one branch quivers, only the leaves in this deadly silence break off one by one and fall onto the sand like a long paper snake. Motionless poetry of autumn.

dry leaves fall
they fall slowly, rhythmically
rustling velvet carpets the earth
above this gristling bed
red purple gold
frightened by the air’s deathly calm
sun sets slowly
melancholy, anaemic.

     A moment ago, the senior mechanic Ginter fell between the pinions of the largest machine. When they dragged him out, all that was left of him was just a shapeless mass. For Berg, this is an unpleasant thought and he makes every effort not to think about it. Ever since that memorable night a week ago, his awareness of an unceasing and unyielding hostility grows stronger with each day and Berg cannot get rid of it. Whenever he has to cross the workshop, he does so very quickly, not looking around. The wind of a dull and helpless hatred, blowing from the machines, fills him with a cold, incomprehensible terror. He looks into the faces of the workmen and tries to find there a confirmation of the same feeling, but the faces are inscrutable and stare with a grim and harsh expression. For some time now, Berg has been persecuted by the thought that these people who have worked here for several years must all be mentally ill. He is made conscious of this thought by the fact that he studies their actions closely and tries to find confirmation of his suspicion in them. When the opportunity for a conversation with one of the workmen presents itself he feels tongue-tied and tries to end the exchange as quickly as possible.

     If only there were some guarantee that one would not go insane oneself, thinks Berg and immediately afterwards starts planning to change his job. Yes, that will be better. He will get a new job, maybe take something in the clerical line. That will certainly set him at ease.

     Suddenly he hears behind him an inhuman whistle. An automobile rushing past him grabs him and throws him off on to the pavement. He hears a stream of vulgarities flung at him from inside the car.

     Totally off guard, he leans against the tree in order to pull his thoughts together. Fear choked up inside steals out and stares him in the eyes. “I must think this over, think it over”, repeats Berg, feeling that after all everything has been thought out for him, well ahead of time. There is no escape. A naive moment ago, he actually imagined that a mere change of job would be enough to protect him from the hatred of the machine. He sees now that the machine is waiting for him everywhere. Each step he takes is predetermined by the machine.

     Berg feels suddenly cornered. All the machines he has ever seen crawl out of every corner of his senses and enclose him within an iron ring. A name, like a thin and feeble thread of light burns in him: Izolda. He looks around. He is somewhere far away in an unknown part of town. He feels terribly weary. He must get back home.

     A streetcar is coming. At the mere sight of it Berg begins to shiver. He wants to scream. He stares at the face of a passenger on the right. It is a kind and serene face, like a mask. Suddenly, under his stare, the mask cracks into the monstrous crevasse of a smile, and Berg sees for a split second the red jaw of a man a few centimeters from his own face.

8

     The atmosphere at the workshop is becoming more and more strange each day. Hidden whispers among the workmen, which from the time of Ginter’s death have changed into a low muttering. They are talking about a strike.

     More and more frequently Berg encounters groups of workmen who disperse at the sight of him. On the door of the power station they have hung a small square proclamation, which no one bothers to tear down.

     Berg wept for a long time that night over lzolda’s legs. The time had come. Fate is pushing him, saddling him with the role of a liberator.

9

     The power station is black and empty. From the time he closed the door behind him Berg has been standing propped against the wall, less and less certain of why he came here at all. From the day he first appeared on the scene as a very young engineer, he has never seen the place so quiet and so dark. He is overwhelmed. He immediately wants to turn on the electricity, but remembers that there is no electricity in the whole town, because the power station is not in operation. This realization helps him to recover his sanity. He tries to think rationally. He takes a flashlight out of his pocket and lights it. A sharp streak of light cuts the gloom. The black void seems now even more pronounced. Like the black wings of giants, the huge contours of wheels loom out of the darkness.

     Berg feels that if he stays here another second he will be in the throes of a great escape. He takes several steps. His movements are now completely mechanical.

10

     The road is strangely long. Berg is certain that he has arready passed it. He must turn back. He raises the flashlight and at once notices that he is still standing under the same blackboard. In the harsh tight the eyes of the clock blaze like the eyes of a cat.

     Berg takes from his coat pocket a file and a hammer.

     The eyes of the clocks stare at him coldly and quietly. The hand clutching the hammer is cool and steady. All that is necessary now is a great deal of calm.

     The eyes of the pressure gauges are becoming strange and magnetic. They remind Berg of some fakir he once saw in a circus mesmerising a snake with his eyes. He now feels the same as the snake must have felt after he had come to bite, but could not move because he was spellbound by a strange stare. These thoughts only last a moment. Then, exercising one last ounce of will power, Berg raises the hammer and strikes the board with an unexpected strength. The snap of cracking marble shatters the silence.

     Peace, bright clear, warm and deep like a pond . . . .

     And suddenly something inconceivable happens: for a moment he is blinded by the bright edgeless light. The black, motionless wheels start to turn. Berg suddenly feels a hard blow on the head and falls, striking his face against the floor.

     On the fourth page of a single newspaper that is passed from hand to hand, among the headlines, a small announcement stands blackly:

     “Caught performing a frenzied act of sabotage, while trying to smash the machines which operated the local power station, the engineer Witold Berg will be tried before the Workmen’s Tribunal . . . . .”

     Huge empty factory hall filled by a sea of human heads. In the centre, a tribunal erected hurriedly from several crates. A thin, freckled student with white blinking eyelashes is reciting the warrant. A dark, licked-into-shape bookkeeper with a large nose turns over slowly, with extreme unction, the pages of the portfolio. The voice of the freckled student resounds plaintively, accompanied from time to time by the murmur of the crowd, a sound like wind blowing through the hall.

     The hearing goes on in a boring and disconsolate manner. The outcome is already known to everyone; it is merely a question of formalities.

     At last the student sits down, wiping his nose with a handkerchief, and the bookkeeper, in a thin metalic voice, attracts attention with a vague gesture to the right.

     “Bring in the accused”.

     A dull grumble passes through the hall. Then the doors on the left open extra noisily, and Berg enters guarded by four armed uniformed workmen. The crowd moves back to let them pass freely to the platform.

     The humming grows louder until it slowly changes to an uproar of hostile voices.

     The bell.

     The hearing goes on.

     The arms of the clock move dogmatically, at the helpless pace of a turtle. Suddenly a murmur stirs and masses of heads turn and lean towards the platform as though pushed in that direction.

     On the platform stands Berg. He is very white; his eyes dart distractedly back and forth; one strand of hair is hanging over his forehead. Dressed immaculately, in a jacket. He speaks gently and sonorously, often pausing in search of the proper expression.

     The day of retribution has arrived. The proletariat, aware of its purpose, rises to battle. To achieve fruitful results, we must first establish the identity of the deadly enemy. It will suffice to demolish this enemy, and evil will be removed. This enemy is undoubtedly the bourgeoisie, but it is not the fundamental enemy. It is enough to take away from them their capital, and immediately this will enlarge the body of the proletariat by several million heads. But the proletariat’s own problem still remains unsolved. The real enemy is somebody else, somebody closer, confronting the workman every day at work, swallowing up his energy, his health and sometimes even his life. This enemy is the machine. It is not in vain that the bourgeois boasts about its machines being its greatest gain, the thing that supplies it with a million comforts.

     In assuming that civilised society had created in the machine, solely, a new weapon with which to combat the elements and a new way to exploit the proletariat, the bourgeoisie was making a bad mistake. The machine thrived like a parasite and bit into every corner of life, and from a mere tool became slowly its master. The bourgeoisie is entirely dominated by the machine and cannot exist without it.

     But the workman has always hated the machine. From the very beginning it was his curse and misery. Thousands of unemployed, thousands of dead and wounded, widows and orphans without bread — that’s what the machine means to a workman. Now that the time of open and victorious battle has arrived the task of the proletariat is this: to liberate humanity from the machine. It must be destroyed immediately, if we do not want it to destroy us.

     At this moment Berg is beautiful. His cheeks are flushed, his forehead covered by hair.

     There is some applause and a long uncertain silence. Berg steps down.

     The student with freckles stands up. He seems frightened. His little eyes blink fast. He speaks quickly and angrily.

     He expresses the view that the engineer was simply trying to make fun of the Tribunal, but the applause he hears forces him to reply. The destruction of the machine, which is the cultural possession of all humanity and therefore the proletariat’s as well, would signify a return to barbarism . . . . . Machines are in the service of masters as well as workmen. How can the proletariat exist without the machines? After all, the street cars and the aqueducts which everyone uses are also machines.

     Berg does not listen to the end. He walks out of the crowded hall on to the Street. The people make room for him. The autumn rain falls in smudged streaks, like tears.

     Berg feels that something has caught him by the throat and is choking him.

     His whole speech and appeal seem to him a droll parody. Why all this? After all, they are the same as the others, only a little less “intelligent”; besides it is too late anyway.

11

     Several days later, when the general strike began, Berg went out on to the street in the morning. It was a bright, sunny day. Silence enveloped the squares. The streetcars were not running.

     He wandered into the widest avenue and walked up the hill. The streets are pulsating strangely, as if intoxicated. A spirit of unrest peers out of the gates. Silence thickens. Everything seems to be lurking in corners, as if waiting for something to happen. Berg’s pace quickens. He wants to get home quickly.

     On the corner of the street someone grabs his arm. Clear blue eyes and a peaked cap seen somewhere before. The workman from the power station.

     “I heard you in court”, he says in a clear full voice. “I didn’t understand everything, but you said that the time will come when the machines will control us, and not we them. But you see, one action from us and everything stands still. The silence is the way it was before the creation of the world. What do you say to that, eh?”

     He is all aglow, everything that is radiant emanates from him, the sun, joy and power: WE.WE.

     Berg stares him in the face and has an uncontrolable desire to tear that joy from him and to see in those round eyes a terrified animal.

     They keep on walking along the pavement towards the Triumphal Arch. Berg speaks:

     “Anyhow, now it all makes no difference. None of you have perceived the soul of the machine, you, who were the closest to it. And it is really so simple. The soul of the machine is speed. perpetuum mobile. Limitation, however, is the sole component of the air which we can permit ourselves. Thus the consequences that follow are clearly evident. We inoculated ourselves with a deadly serum and are becoming overcome by it.

     “We are approaching the end with a mathematical precision. Soon everything around us will be taken over by machines. We will move among machines. Each deed which we perform will be dependent on the machine. We are capitulating. We are surrendering ourselves to an element that is alien and hostile. The steel band of nervous effort which still maintains our hegemony over machines must and will crack any minute. Then, all that is left will be either war or loss of sanity. Meanwhile no one foresees this, no one understands. We are blinded by our own power. There is no solution. We have besieged ourselves from all sides. And besides, this is already inside us. You can no longer manage without the machine. Your ancestors might have been better equipped to do so. It is too late for you. Even too late for defence. We can only wait. The poison is already in us. We ourselves have poisoned ourselves, willfully. The lies of civilization. Goodbye”.

     He bent suddenly and spoke into the mechanic’s ear, violently shaking his hand. “I’m going that way”.

12

     Late one evening, when the duty officer at Police Station No. X was tying down for a nap, there appeared a deathly pale man with gleaming eyes, who, having introduced himself as Witold Berg, engineer of the local power station, reported that his legs had been stolen. In addition, he categorically demanded the immediate help of several officers, and made it clear that he had not a moment to lose.

     There were all of two officers present at the station, therefore the policeman announced very politely, that he would have to wait a minute, since there was no one available and he would have to telephone for help. Berg told him that he could not wait a moment, and that, if they couldn’t supply him with immediate help at this station, he would be forced to go to another one.

     The night duty officer tried to detain him with every possible argument. The other officer who had gone to the telephone announced that in three minutes the detectives would arrive.

     They started writing out a report.

     However, no one was able to extract any further information from the man, other than that while he was out that evening someone had stolen his legs from his apartment.

     “Here are the men”, said the officer in a friendly voice.” You were unnecessarily worried”.

     Six broad shouldered men entered the room and stood on either side of the door. “These men are at your disposal”, said the officer. “Please be so kind as to direct them”.

     Berg clasped the hand of the officer, who extended it very eagerly, and walked ahead. He had hardly crossed the threshhold, when he suddenly felt twelve strong hands grab him and push him onto the floor. He tried to tear himself away; he struggled, bit, rolled on the ground with them; several times he even managed to free himself, but eventually, stunned and bound, he gave up. He felt himself floating somewhere down a sloping plain, after which he was engulfed by the damp autumn air. Finally he realised that he was being squeezed into some kind of small airtight box. The top of the box was locked. Berg lost consciousness.

     The night officers at Station X were obviously not meant to sleep that night. No sooner had the sound of steps faded downstairs then a message came by telephone to the effect that on Street No. 14 a female person, lzolda Morgan, who had lost both her legs in a streetcar accident two months ago, had just poisoned herself by drinking sulphuric acid.

13

     When he regained consciousness, it was bright outside. White, blinding moonlight was falling from above through a little window. The room was small and unfurnished. In the beam of white light, the floor bricks shimmered. He rose with ease and elasticity. Only then discovering that he was bound.

     He removed an odd jacket without the slightest effort and tossed it under the bed. The moon shone brightly and steadily.

     I will go on the street, thought Berg and approached the door. But the door was locked and had no knob. He then proceeded slowly towards the wall, pushed it to one side effortlessly, and walked out.

     On the street he was immediately swallowed up by a crowd frenzied rushing in some direction. He walked, pushed along wide brightly lit streets, completely strange to him. The moon shone like a gigantic electric bulb, casting a cool but powerful light.

     On a street corner he felt someone’s slight hand in the crock of his arm. He turned around. Right beside him walked a slim young girl who had a gentle childlike face and very long dark lashes. They did not speak to each other. The girl turned at the next corner. He followed her obediently, unconcerned about his destination. Thus they walked through one whole street. On the next street the girl directed him into a large dark house, dimly lit by an oil lamp. He climbed the narrow wooden steps to the second floor. She opened the door with a key. She asked him to sit on the bed, in a narrow, neatly furnished room, and started to undress. When she took off her slip he noticed that she had very small, firm breasts and wide well moulded hips. He suddenly remembered that he had been without a woman for two months. He took her greedily, as people take bread in time of famine. He hips were soft and flexible, they rose and fell rhythmically, like springs, in such a manner that it was possible for him to remain motionless while the act took place by itself. He took her again and again. Once exhausted, he lay back against the pillows, while she started to dress. Just then he realised that he was penniless. He told her. She was not angry. She dressed quickly, and told him that she had to go out again. They left. Outside the gate they parted.

     The street, along which Berg was walking, was wide and full of people. Everyone was running quickly in one direction, as though they were irritated by something. Not wanting to be shoved, Berg stepped off the pavement and kept on walking. He thought about the strange woman, whom he had possessed only a moment ago; he thought mostly about her unimaginable hips. At that moment he heard from behind a prolonged hostile screech. He turned. Immediately behind him followed a streetcar. It was nearly touching his back. Berg realised then that he was walking in the centre of white slippery tracks. He started to run, with all his might. But he could not turn off to one side. He thought with precision that as soon as he put one leg on the slippery track he would slip and the streetcar would run him over. He ran straight ahead along the tracks with unbelievable speed, hearing right behind him the hostile hummm of the racing streetcar. He tried to scream, but couldn’t. Just a moment — there should have been a stop right here . . . . . but there was no stop. Finally it loomed up far ahead. Berg gathered all his strength; the main thing was to reach it. He reached it.

     But the streetcar did not stop; instead it raced on, maintaining a steady speed. in this manner they passed the first stop, then the second. Suddenly Berg felt his hair rising on his head and his legs giving away. All of a sudden there flashed into his head a hackneyed old poem.

It will come to pass one afternoon or morning
unexpectedly, simple, like most things happen —
you will see all at once that on the corner stops
the thudding passing streetcars will not halt,
they will race in leaps and bounds, jumping from
track to track, long necks diagonally —
out of breath, red stupefied machines
No. 8, No. 16, No. 4 . . . . .

     He glanced back — the streetcar touched his shoulders. On the front was the number 18. Other streetcars passed. On the back platform of one of them, he noticed Izolda leaning against the rail waving a handkerchief. Then, with his last ounce of strength, he clasped both hands around the protruding eye of a hanging lantern and suspended himself in mid air.

     Around him, one after the other, raced long streetcars filled with people whose pale faces were marked by insane terror.