FATIGUE OF THE SYNAPSES
27
you about the speech and shall edit the cabled version ourselves
unless you have already finished it, in which case please hand over
to the messenger."
The messenger, a pale youth with a thin, alert face, was eyeing
Leontiev with curiosity. He was a boy from a working class suburb
and a member of the Party, who had never before seen a Hero of
Culture, nor such a luxurious hotel apartment; he felt that the com–
bination of the two was vaguely disturbing. On the other hand, the
old, worn dressing-gown and the fact that its pocket was even torn,
impressed the boy favorably. He had a secret vice which he was
unable to part with though he knew that it did not go with a revolu–
tionary conscience: he collected autographs. Worse, the autographs
in his collection were mainly those of boxers, bicycle champions and
film stars, all of whom he knew to be parasites of a putrid society,
whose sole function was to divert the attention of the masses from
their economic plight and the revolutionary struggle. Now at last
he was offered a chance to improve his collection by the signature
of a confirmed Hero of Culture.
The great man was standing with his back to him, looking out
of the window; he had apparently forgotten the boy's presence. There
was something forbidding about the way he held his back and shoul–
ders; but after all, the boy told himself, they were comrades in arms,
members of the same movement. He cleared his throat:
"Monsieur," he called; his voice came out curiously thin in the
silent room. Leontiev turned round. He stared at the boy. For a
moment the boy thought that Leontiev was perhaps blind. He once
more cleared his throat and steadied his voice. "Please will you sign
this for me, monsieur?" he asked, holding out his cheap autograph
album. Leontiev looked at him absent-mindedly, his fists in his pock–
ets; suddenly he became conscious of the rent in the gown, quickly
pulled his right hand out of the pocket and seemed to wake up.
"Yes," he said. "I will sign the receipt."
He took the album, looked sternly at the blank page, then a
curious flash occurred in his eyes-it was, the boy thought, as if the
current had been short-circuited behind his eyeballs.
"Wait," Leontiev said. "I wish to write a message to the head
of the Agency." He took three quick steps to the desk and began to
write
in
the album; he seemed to be electrified. The boy gaped,
