The Active Side of Infinity Read Online Free PDF Page A

about
him, and had to do with the story I was telling don Juan, was the bombastic
idea he had of himself; he thought he was the most licentious, lusty,
all-around scholar and craftsman, a man of the Renaissance.
Licentious he was, but lustiness was something in complete contradiction
to his bony, dry, serious person. He was a vicarious follower of the English philosopher
Bertrand Russell and dreamed of applying the principles of logical positivism
to art criticism. To be an all-around scholar and craftsman was
perhaps his wildest fantasy because he was a procrastinator; work was his
nemesis.
    His dubious specialty wasn't art criticism, but his personal knowledge
of all the prostitutes of the local bordellos, of which there
were plenty. The colorful and lengthy accounts he used to give me-in order to
keep me, according to him, up to date about all the marvelous things he did in
the world of his specialty-were delightful. It was not
surprising to me, therefore, that one day he came to my
apartment, all excited, nearly out of breath, and told me that something
extraordinary had happened to him and that he wanted to share it with me.
    "I say, old man, you must see this for yourself!" he said
excitedly in the Oxford accent he affected every time he talked to
me. He paced the room nervously. "It's hard to describe, but I know
it's something you will appreciate. Something, the impression of which will
last you for a lifetime. I am going to give you a marvelous gift
for life. Do you understand?"
    I understood that he was a hysterical Scotsman. It was always my
pleasure to humor him and tag along. I had never regretted it.
"Calm down, calm down, Eddie," I said. "What are you trying to
tell me?”
    He related to me that he had been in a bordello, where he had found an
unbelievable woman who did an incredible thing she called
"figures in front of a mirror." He assured me repeatedly, almost
stuttering, that I owed it to myself to experience this unbelievable event
personally.
    "I say, don't worry about money!" he said, since he knew I
didn't have any. "I've already paid the price. All you have to do is go
with me. Madame Ludmilla will show you her 'figures in front of a
mirror.' It's a blast!"
    In a fit of uncontrollable glee, Eddie laughed uproariously, oblivious
to his bad teeth, which he normally hid behind a tight-lipped
smile or laugh. "I say, it's absolutely great!"
    My curiosity mounted by the minute. I was more than willing to
participate in his new delight. Eddie drove me to the outskirts of the
city. We stopped in front of a dusty, badly kept building; the paint was
peeling off the walls. It had the air of having been a hotel at one time, a
hotel that had been turned into an apartment building. I could see
the remnants of a hotel sign that seemed to have been ripped to pieces. On
the front of the building there were rows of dirty single balconies filled with flowerpots or draped with
carpets put out to dry.
    At the entrance to the building were two dark, shady-looking men
wearing pointed black shoes that seemed too tight on their
feet; they greeted Eddie effusively. They had black, shifty, menacing
eyes. Both of them were wearing shiny light-blue suits, also too tight for
their bulky bodies. One of them opened the door for Eddie. They
didn't even look at me.
    We went up two flights of stairs on a dilapidated staircase that at one
time must have been luxurious. Eddie led the way and walked the length of an
empty, hotellike corridor with doors on both sides.
All the doors were painted in the same drab, dark, olive green. Every door had
a brass number, tarnished with age, barely visible against the
painted wood.
    Eddie stopped in front of a door. I noticed the number 112 on it. He
rapped repeatedly. The door opened, and a round, short woman with
bleached-blonde hair beckoned us in without saying a word. She
was wearing a red silk robe with feathery, flouncy sleeves and red slippers
with furry balls on top. Once we were inside a