CHAPTER 29. AN INSIGNIFICANT QUARREL.

January 29, 1922.

At 1:23 AM, Kellet Wilkinson suddenly left the embrace of Morpheus, which is so sweet to all, without the slightest exception, representatives of the human race, not only in that season but also in that period of time—no, he left it not of his own free will, but thanks to a will that was more powerful, more all-encompassing, more dominant: he left it under the influence of that very will, the most brilliant means of achieving one of whose goals at that moment was no more and no less than an exceptionally, due to its nature, resonant humming noise—for what exact reason was winter Washington, completely shrouded in the twilight cloak of a snowy night, now roaring so long and so oppressively? What happened or, if you will, occurred in its all-great, and therefore not exclusively good and not exclusively evil, depths? What actions, or if you will, what inaction exactly, was this roar the result of?

No longer able to endure—no, not the aforementioned roar, but the indescribable quality of his own sense of curiosity!—this impulse, Kellet Wilkinson purposefully headed toward the bulky dark-brown radio receiver: having swiftly performed all the necessary manipulations to turn it on, Kellet Wilkinson instantly turned into a completely sensitive ear—"...the Knickerbocker Theatre is destroyed...", "...the death of many people...", "...the flat roof design...", "a terrible blizzard...", "...Washington is shaken...", "...rescue operation..."... Immediately rubbing his eyes, Kellet Wilkinson again pressed against the dark-brown being of the aforementioned device—from its depths, such phrases were still being emitted discretely and anxiously. Could the Knickerbocker Theatre have really fallen? No, that's impossible! The collapse of the Knickerbocker Theatre is no more and no less than a bizarre phantasmagoria! But is it? Is it a mad vision... or is it a no less mad reality? It was possible to find an answer to the aforementioned question only after returning to a conscious state from an unconscious one—me paenitet, Sigmund Freud! And what, what was capable of producing that return in the fastest and, what is important, most effective way? Only cold water! "Water wears away stones"—Job once claimed. "Will it be able to wear away the stone of bewilderment now?"—Kellet Wilkinson now asked... Why a stone exactly? Because his appearance was now nothing other than stony! Why bewilderment exactly? Because this very interesting feeling seemed to have found its formal definition on that appearance forever.

Instantly approaching the relatively untidy sink, Kellet Wilkinson, without losing the slightest moment, purposefully freed the extraordinarily cold water from its existing confinement—a thin silvery strip of continuously trembling moisture, tirelessly emitting a very distinctive sound, hurriedly rushed downward, toward the center of the earth: Kellet Wilkinson immediately turned his gaze to a small rectangular mirror—within its limits, there was now a very peculiar portrait of a twenty-five-year-old man. No, that was by no means a man—that was a philosopher, and that, in turn, is significantly more than a man: he was outside the gender, racial, and other, absolutely meaningless, attributes of a human being, but by no means a human essence. For a few moments, covering his eyes with his languid eyelids, Kellet Wilkinson imagined the collapse of the Knickerbocker Theatre in his mind—another moment, and his gaze was again directed into the essence of the mirror: in the present moments, a person was now located in its depths whose appearance was significantly similar to the appearance of Hercules from Lemoine's well-known painting "Omphale and Hercules"—his mighty nakedness was inconspicuously hidden only by dark hair, like the intentions of Alexandre Dumas' envious people.

Having no desire to study the subtle features of his extraordinarily sensitive nature any longer, Kellet Wilkinson instantly scooped a moderate amount of cold moisture into his hands, which were entirely smeared with black-blue writing fluid, and immediately plunged his young face into the burning essence of it—after performing several such manipulations of the aforementioned kind, this man, this human, or if you will, this philosopher, suddenly felt a certain, previously well-known to his being, extremely painful shiver in his now extraordinarily cold hands: it was at this moment that Kellet Wilkinson returned to the conscious state so familiar to his mind—along with that return, his memories also returned to him, like birds wandering no one knows where returning to their native homes. Memories! Those very memories that at this minute awakened an extraordinarily loud scream in his exceptionally sensitive soul: his lips did not utter a single sound in that moment—Kellet Wilkinson returned to reality! And what was waiting for him in this reality? Nothing other than another mirage! In the present moments, the recent scene, which, in his understanding, seemed to have happened countless centuries ago, quickly floated before his eyes—it was a scene of an "insignificant" quarrel that took place on January 28, 1922, between Kellet Wilkinson and his beloved, Emma Gilbert:

"—Did you take any measures to change the situation? No! No! And a hundred times no! Enough! I no longer need your excuses!"—Emma Gilbert, now dressed in a Schweinfurt green outfit, said loudly with indescribable excitement: another second, and that very charming bouquet of tiger lilies, which continuously radiated, truly, no more and no less than a divine aroma, very self-willedly sprawled out on the entirely scratched, by all sorts of furniture movements within that room, wooden floor. Having left Miss Gilbert's extraordinarily delicate hands, it broke into several fragments with amazing swiftness: the thread holding this fascio[***] was too thin. But was the very thread that for some reason, or most likely for some purpose, connected Kellet Wilkinson and Emma Gilbert just as thin?