Darkness at Noon Read Online Free PDF

thought it over for a bit, and then tapped:
    THREE WEEKS AGO.
    The answer came at once:
    TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT.
    Well, really, that was going a bit far. Rubashov’s first impulse was to break off the conversation; but he remembered the man might later become very useful as a connecting link to No. 400 and the cells beyond. The cell to the left was obviously uninhabited; there the chain broke off. Rubashov racked his brain. An old pre-war song came to his memory, which he had heard as a student, in some cabaret where black-stockinged ladies danced the French can-can. He sighed resignedly and tapped with his pince-nez:
    SNOWY BREASTS FITTING INTO CHAMPAGNE GLASSES ...
    He hoped that was the right tone. It was apparently, for No. 402 urged:
    GO ON. DETAILS.
    By this time he was doubtless plucking nervously at his moustache. He certainly had a little moustache with twirled-up ends. The devil take the man; he was the only connecting link; one had to keep up with him. What did officers talk about in the mess? Women and horses. Rubashov rubbed his pince-nez on his sleeve and tapped conscientiously:
    THIGHS LIKE A WILD MARE.
    He stopped, exhausted. With the best will in the world he could not do more. But No. 402 was highly satisfied.
    GOOD CHAP! he tapped enthusiastically. He was doubtless laughing boisterously, but one heard nothing; he slapped his thighs and twirled his moustache, but one saw nothing. The abstract obscenity of the dumb wall was embarrassing to Rubashov.
    GO ON, urged No. 402.
    He couldn’t. THAT’S ALL—tapped Rubashov and regretted it immediately. No. 402 must not be offended. But fortunately No. 402 did not let himself be offended. He tapped on obstinately with his monocle:
    GO ON—PLEASE, PLEASE. ...
    Rubashov was now again practised to the extent of no longer having to count the signs; he transformed them automatically into acoustic perception. It seemed to him that he actually heard the tone of voice in which No. 402 begged for more erotic material. The begging was repeated:
    PLEASE—PLEASE. ...
    No. 402 was obviously still young—probably grown up in exile, sprung from an old Army family, sent back into his country with a false passport—and he was obviously tormenting himself badly. He was doubtless plucking at his little moustache, had stuck his monocle to his eye again and was staring hopelessly at the whitewashed wall.
    MORE—PLEASE, PLEASE.
    ... Hopelessly staring at the dumb, whitewashed wall, staring at the stains caused by the damp, which gradually began to assume the outlines of the woman with the champagne-cup breasts and the thighs of a wild mare.
    TELL ME MORE—PLEASE.
    Perhaps he was kneeling on the bunk with his hands folded-like the prisoner in No. 407 had folded them to receive his piece of bread.
    And now at last Rubashov knew of what experience this gesture had reminded him-the imploring gesture of the meagre, stretched-out hands. Pietà ...

9
    Pietà . ... The picture gallery of a town in southern Germany on a Monday afternoon. There was not a soul in the place, save for Rubashov and the young man whom he had come to meet; their conversation took place on a round plush sofa in the middle of an empty room, the walls of which were hung with tons of heavy female flesh by the Flemish masters. It was in the year 1933, during the first months of terror, shortly before Rubashov’s arrest. The movement had been defeated, its members were outlawed and hunted and beaten to death. The Party was no longer a political organization; it was nothing but a thousand-armed and thousand-headed mass of bleeding flesh. As a man’s hair and nails continue to grow after his death, so movement still occurred in individual cells, muscles and limbs of the dead Party. All over the country existed small groups of people who had survived the catastrophe and continued to conspire underground. They met in cellars, woods, railway stations, museums and sport clubs. They continuously changed their sleeping