Krakatit/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II
The first thing of which Prokop was conscious was that everything in him was being shaken and rattled and that some one was holding him firmly round the waist. He had a terrible fear of opening his eyes; he had an idea that everything would collapse on top of him. And when this didn’t happen be opened them and saw in front of him a vague square about which were moving misty balls and strips of light. He was unable to explain it; confusedly he watched the phantom shapes as they jumped about and slid away, having patiently resigned himself to anything which might be in store for him. Then he realized that the rattling was that of the wheels of a cab and that outside lights were slipping past in the fog. Exhausted by this act of observation he again closed his eyes and allowed himself to be carried away.
“Now lie down,” said a quiet voice above his head; “swallow an aspirin and you’ll be better. In the morning I’ll fetch a doctor, yes?”
“Who’s that?” asked Prokop sleepily.
“Thomas. You’re lying down at my place, Prokop. You’ve a fever. Where does it hurt you?”
“Everywhere. I feel giddy. So, you see . . .”
“Just lie quiet. I’ll boil you some tea and you’ll go off to sleep. It’s the result of excitement, see? A sort of nervous fever. It’ll be gone before morning.”
Prokop knitted his brows in the effort to remember. “I know,” he said carefully, after a moment. “Listen, some one must throw that box into the river. So that it won’t explode.”
“Don’t worry. Now stop talking.”
“Perhaps I could sit up. Aren’t I heavy?”
“No, lie down.”
“—and you’ve got my chemistry notebook,” Prokop remembered suddenly.
“Yes, you’ll get it back. But now stay quiet, do you hear?”
“My head’s so heavy.”
Meanwhile the cab was rattling up Jecna Street. Thomas was softly whistling a tune and looking out of the window. Prokop was breathing heavily and moaning quietly. The fog made the pavements damp and insinuated itself under one’s coat with its cold, wet slime. It was late and the streets were deserted.
“Here we are,” said Thomas loudly. The cab bumped more noisily over a square and turned off to the right. “Wait, Prokop, can you manage a couple of steps? I’ll help you.”
With an effort Thomas dragged his guest up to the second floor. Prokop seemed to himself to be without weight, and allowed himself to be quickly wafted up the stairs; but Thomas was breathing heavily and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“See, I’m like a thread,” said Prokop, surprised.
“Well,” said Thomas, panting, and opened the door of his flat.
Prokop felt like a little child while Thomas was undressing him. “My mother,” he began, “when my mother, ever so long ago . . . father sat at the table, and mother carried me to bed, see?”
Then he was in bed, covered up to the chin, his teeth chattering and watching Thomas rapidly making a fire. He could have cried from self-pity and weakness, and he babbled the whole time; then a cold compress was placed on his forehead and he quieted down. He looked about the room; there was a scent of tobacco and women.
“You’re a rogue, Thomas,” he exclaimed seriously, “always having women.”
Thomas turned round. “Well?”
“Nothing. What exactly are you doing just now?”
Thomas waved his hand. “It’s bad, my friend. No money.”
“You womanize.”
Thomas only shook his head.
“And it’s a pity, you know,” began Prokop, with concern. “You could have—look, I’ve been at it for twelve years.”
“And what have you got out of it?” retorted Thomas sharply.
“Well, something here and there. I sold some explosive dextrine this year.”
“For how much?”
“For ten thousand. But that’s nothing. Rubbish. Only an explosive for mines. But if I had wished to . . .”
“Do you feel better now?”
“Fine. I’ve found out some methods for you!
Nitrate of cerium, there’s an excitable monster for you, man; and chloride, chloride, tetrachloride of nitrogen, that’s exploded by light. You turn on the light, and bang! But that’s nothing. Listen,” he exclaimed, suddenly sticking his thin, terribly mutilated hand out of the bedclothes, “when I take anything in my hand, so . . . I feel the vibration of the atoms. Just like ants. Each kind of substance creeps differently, see?”
“No ”
“That’s power, see? Power in matter. Matter is terribly powerful. I . . . I feel it moving. It holds together . . . with an enormous effort. Once you loosen it inside, it disintegrates. Bang! Everything is an explosive. Every thought is a sort of explosion inside the head. When you give me your hand I feel as if something is exploding inside you. I’ve an extraordinary touch, man. And hearing. Everything is bubbling like effervescent powder. Tiny explosions again. There’s a noise going on in my head. . . . Ratata, like a machine gun.”
“Yes?” said Thomas. “And now swallow this aspirin.”
“Yes. Ex—explosive aspirin. Perchlorated acteylsalicacid. That’s nothing. Man, I’ve discovered an exothermic explosive. Water. Water is an explosive. Every material is really an explosive. The feathers in a feather bed are explosives. At present, you see, this has only a theoretical significance. And I’ve discovered atomic explosions. I—I—I—I’ve made alpha explosions. It disintegrates into plus electrons. No thermochemistry. Des-truc-tion. Destructive chemistry, man. That’s a tremendous thing, Thomas, purely scientific. At home I’ve got tables. . . . If only I had apparatus! But I’ve only eyes . . . and hands. . . . Wait, let me write it down!”
“Don’t you want to sleep?”
“I do. To-day—I’m—tired. And what have you been doing all this time?”
“Nothing. Life.”
“Life is an explosive, see? Bang, and a man is born and then, bang, he falls to pieces. And we think it lasts some years, see? Wait a moment, I’ve got something mixed, haven’t I?”
“It’s all right, Prokop. To-morrow, perhaps, we’ll make an explosion. That is, if I haven’t any money. But it’s all the same, just go to sleep.”
“I’ll lend it you if you like.”
“No, thanks, it wouldn’t be enough. Perhaps my father” Thomas waved his arm.
“So you’ve still got a father,” said Prokop after a moment with sudden gentleness.
“Well, yes. A doctor in Tynice.” Thomas stood up and began to walk up and down the room. “I’m up against it. But don’t worry about me. I—I’ll do something. Sleep!”
Prokop quieted down. Through his half-closed eyes he watched Thomas sit down at the table and rummage among some papers. It was somehow delicious to listen to the rustling of paper and the quiet noise of the fire in the stove. The man bent forward over the table, supported his head with his hand and, it seemed, was hardly breathing; and to Prokop it was as if he was at home and looking at his elder brother, Joseph, studying electrical engineering in preparation for the examination the next day. He fell into a feverish sleep.