FATIGUE OF THE SYNAPSES
31
obtaining permission for Zina to accompany him-but only almost.
She had borne the disappointment bravely, although her main wish
in life had been to go abroad once, only once; her chance had never
come. But he had talked to her about Paris as one talks about a
painting to the blind; and they had talked about the eternally prom–
ised trip together as convicts under a life sentence talk about the day
of amnesty. He had shown her photographs of Notre Dame and of
the quais; told her about the Montmartre cabarets, of the
bals mu–
sette
in the Rue de Lappe, of onion soup at daybreak in the HaIles;
and as he now crossed the Place de Carrousel with its fairyland view
of two miles of gaslights blinking in the soft blue dusk, he kept up a
silent running commentary to Zina, and heard her little cries of naive
delight. Then, as he stood on the bridge, with the parcel dangling
from his finger, and looked at the colored lights dancing on the river,
he stopped his comments and became emphatically silent; and he
heard her say with her soft Ukrainian lilt: But Lyovochka, it can't
be that it has really come true. He felt a faint pain in his right index
finger; the string of the spinning parcel must have tightened round
it and cut the circulation some time ago; the tip of his finger looked
blue and swollen.
He said soundlessly but distinctly: Zina, you must leave me alone
because I still have some work to do. He saw her nod with resignation,
and her image slowly faded away. Then he resumed his walk across
the bridge.
