Ants

RUSSIA VIKTOR LAPITSKII Ants I remember very well how it all began. I always took great care of my fingernails and kept them long, clean and manicured, but suddenly I noticed something black, some sort of little black lump under the nail of my right index finger. I immediately picked it out with a sharpened match, it turned out to be an ant. At first it floundered about a little on my palm, then fled away with me after it and I crushed it. I had not yet guessed that my insides were rearing ants. It was hard to work out where it came from. I knew that ants infested certain apartments, obviously a particular domestic species, and lived no worse a life there than any other domesticated insect: fleas, lice, bedbugs, cockroaches, clothes moths, flies, ticks, worms. However, every time I went out for dinner or a night out, I left powerful insecticides behind in my room: fluorophosphate emulsion and a sprig of mistletoe, consequently I never noticed a single insect at home. So I was left totally amazed and ignorant as to its provenance, that is, about the history of this tiny insect. I understood everything much later, after ants began persistently finding their way out of me into the open. Even now I have never seen the actual moment when they emerge from my flesh, I have my own ideas on that score but will speak of them later. At first the ants appeared primarily from under my fingernails, though they may simply have been more noticeable there. Then they began crawling out of my nose, out of my nostrils, crawling out of the right and left ones with more or less equal frequency. They only crawled out of my mouth in my sleep. That was in the beginning, then they gradually took over almost the entire surface of my body. They especially loved, and still love, appearing in my hirsute parts. I first noticed that, combing my plaits over a virgin sheet of laid paper. A dozen or so black dots rapidly began 12 INDEX O N CENSORSHIP 10/1993 sketching incomprehensibly shaped trajectories. At that time I was trying to crush them, annihilate them as quickly as possible, at the same time I wanted to grind them to powder, to dust, so that nothing at all should remain of them, I was ashamed of them, I aimed at annihilating their traces and not a single one of them on the paper, on that sheet of laid paper, the Laid Virgin, out of that first convocation, as I afterwards dubbed it, not one escaped me. Then I first began to think, should I not go to the doctor, but I was deeply ashamed and took refuge in the usual home cures: hot baths of slightly poisoned syrup, vodka and honey taken internally and kohl applied to the acupuncture points. Then I took nosedrops and tried to breed ladybirds in the garden, in a chamber pot with kerosene and spirits — my first attempt at a bio-defence system, but it failed because there weren't any of the pests. All this was as effective against the ants as whistling in the dark. And the ants were crawling full speed out of my sleeves and cuffs, out of my T-shirt and pants, out of my hankies and gloves, not to speak of my caps, earflaps and hats. It was much later that I noticed how often they crawled back under my clothes and disappeared without a trace. True, it now seems to me that they simply hadn't learnt straightaway how to crawl back into me, since they also hadn't learnt straightaway, as I said, to crawl out, creep over my face, and, if required, I could produce a chronicle of their successes in invading more and more uncultivated regions of my body. By the way, they appeared especially frequently on my face, almost constantly, when nobody was looking at me and I myself was not looking in a mirror. Nowadays they all creep back into me during the night, but what they used to do in the evenings, and how they learnt, I still don't know, after all not a single one of the ants I then saw remained alive. They wake up and begin their activity, very busily, it must be said, as a rule at cock-crow and, apparently, long before me, inclined as I am, I must confess, to get up late and, if possible, go late to bed. But to return to my, to our evolution. Thus I could not persuade myself to consult a doctor. I was ashamed . . . Yes, and would it help? Furthermore there were always such queues for the veterinary parasitologist. I tried making an appointment with a specialist entomologist. But my specimen ant aroused active antipathy in him, he abused its appearance, said it lacked breeding and announced that he would not speak to me until I could produce its genealogy. Well, I wasn't going to pull my own passport out of my trouser pockets for him. By that time my irrational anger and hatred towards the ants had already passed. I was thinking more and more about what and who they were. These minute tiny little devils, were they not my flesh, flesh of my flesh? Here I remembered a couple of historical precedents, perhaps my predecessors: Plutarch's meticulous description of the unfortunate Sulla, whose flesh suddenly turned into worms, and Hadrian, from whose nose, according to his own words, there frequently crawled out little yellowish pupa-like tiny chicks, nevertheless maggots — but these are not ants and RUSSIA not even ant larvae, especially since larvae practically never crawled out of me. Apart from that, in the first instance flesh was simply transformed into worms, and, in the second, worms (apparently yellow cerebral vermicelli) only crawled out of the nose. Well, the case described by the crafty surgeon in no way resembles my own. As for larvae, mature ants began evacuating them from me when, as an experiment, I took a heavy internal dose of DDT. It must be said that even under these extreme circumstances I still did not manage even once to glimpse the moment when the ants appeared from under my skin. I think that either one's gaze occasions some unknown kind of pressure on the skin, or, possibly, causes it in some respect — whether physical, chemical, biological or mathematical — to become impenetrable. Or perhaps the skin is a semiconductor, diode or triode, it only allows movement in one direction, either the gaze from outside or the ants from inside... Sometimes when I suddenly doze in broad daylight I dream that an enormous white ant is crawling out of my mouth. Once when I had a sudden temperature and a battle took place under my armpit between a dozen red ants and a bevy of black, I dreamt that my tongue was a penis. It slowly grew erect, struggled with my jaws, I did not want to let it out, I clenched my teeth, but that only encouraged it and it balked, it thrust its head out of my mouth, I felt it looking round, straining, straightening its swelling limbs, stretching up to full height, its thighs atremble in agitation, its body shuddering and with a lunge and a spurt and a plunge, it was off, swift and impetuous like a white foam-comb on a mountain stream, imperceptibly shifting from trot to amble — a large, beautiful, terrible white ant. After this pollution I had frequent and regular flows, almost each lunar month. But I was never able to find out whether they were accompanied by ants. In theory I think that the entire sphere of the organs of excretion, whether or not they coincide with the organs of generation, is not the ants' domain, not the termites' province; although I find them from time to time under the foreskin, but this only happens when the head has been washed spotless and there is not the slightest trace of any sort of liquid, and then only because they didn't circumcise me in infancy. It is probable that scarabs and associates of the eagle-owl are responsible for the excretory organs, and now they no longer want anything to do with man, hence the continual regression, the pollution of man's internal world for millennia, beginning with the defeat of Ancient Egypt in the Seven Day War with Israel. And I, in the form of a sphere, more precisely the sphere of my ego, floating, seeping through the darkness of internal crossings, passages, exits, entrances of the ant heap, thus remained in ignorance as regards the mechanics of excretion of substances processed by the ants, while I float, seep through the darkness of my ego. The darkness within is full of colours, it glitters vainly and vacuously, bright variegated spots can be discerned, the light tastes bitter, completely bitter, everything is black within blackness, beyond darkness. A multitude of approaching ants, crepitation, noises or faces. I never bump into them which is surprising. They cannot notice me. It interests me to watch them conversing, touching antennae, deciding to communicate, perhaps about me, I am alone and there are many of them, in the lower circle of my extremities they are smaller, probably these are simply worker types, sexless, that can be sensed. Strange that I am setting this down, for my sphere has no memory. There is nothing comparable to memory. All one can say about it is that it is black, that it is absolutely impenetrable and that it is endless, boundless and isotropic inside. That its interior is endless, boundless and isotropic. And it has no centre, no navel. And it seems that not only has it no memory but that that is a priori excluded. Although possibly it somehow uses my memory. This is difficult to understand and believe. It still seems to me that the repulsive, fat, greasy worms are somehow connected with memory; the white larvae that live in compost, at the very bottom, under the ant heap, below, in the region of the brain, senseless, mindless allies of my ant heap. But in nightmares they appear to me not as allies but enemies, dreadful monsters whose appearance makes my flesh creep, toothed and fanged, craving flesh and blood, with a serrated beak like a pelican, they nest in the depths of sand dunes, patient and assiduous, lugworms, larvae of the lionant, incarnating the battle of the Hittites with the Myrmidons for the right bank of the Acheron, It is not known whether the lion threatens the sphere. Probably not. For the sphere is completely impenetrable, just like my skin, to the gaze. Sometimes I had the impression that in both cases the reason was the same — the gaze, its poison. It is very likely that someone, furthermore very possibly I myself, watches the sphere all the time — from within or outside, it doesn't INDEX O N CENSORSHIP 10/1993 13 RUSSIA matter — ensuring its impenetrability, like that of the skin. I set up a series of experiments with the gaze. I looked at myself in the mirror, my face was impenetrable. Then I looked through a mirror at the mirror reflecting me and the result was the same. Then I looked through a mirror at a mirror reflecting the mirror that reflected me, and all the time it was the same as if I was looking directly at myself, into my own eyes. On the basis of these findings I began constructing a theory of reflections. But could I be a basilisk? And no sooner did I close my eyes, lie down to sleep, than twice-born creatures ran forth across my cheeks as from the head of Zeus. At times I was overcome by weakness and despair was also at hand, within my grasp, something within me demanded that I change something in myself. At such moments and minutes I usually took new, decisive measures. Once I armed myself with the largest encyclopaedia, which is called Soviet for its scope, and studied everything I could in it, all the articles on insects and articles on the internal world of humans and their soul. This greatly extended my rather narrow range, jogged my imagination, helped me to a new conception of much, if not all, phenomena in the real environment. In particular it forced me to have recourse to Freud's theories, and I now decided that the sexual problem was closely linked to the formic aspects of reality and my psychic life. I felt that for a start I should normalize my sexual life. I took to frequenting the local brothel. But failure awaited me there. All my partners there, all as one woman, immediately began giggling as soon as I touched their bodies, and when I got as far as the loins they simply guffawed, howled out that their skin was crawling, that it tickled, tickled intensely and that I should desist. I took fright and desisted. Having endured a fiasco, for a time I left my penis in perfect peace. I decided to change my circumstances, to travel, perhaps the ants were an attribute of my house, my apartment, my room, my corner. But here too failure awaited me. The first night I rented a chic furnished room in a fashionable hotel. Numerous bedbugs inhabited this chamber,' but in the night my ants drove them out and the next morning 14 INDEX O N CENSORSHIP 10/1993 there was a row and I was forced to leave, and lucky for me they didn't fine me as well. I returned home terribly depressed, life was merciless. After a couple of days' torment, I decided to settle my accounts. I set off for the market and acquired a couple of bunches of white toadstools. I then cooked myself the most exquisite dish to be found in Escoffier: fillet of boiled salmon stuffed with mushrooms in a cyanide sauce, and laid my final banquet. Afterwards I was not even ill, not even slightly unwell, on the other hand the ants died in their thousands, their corpses and carcasses, deformed by their final convulsions, horribly swollen, already decaying, rained from my skin. Extruded intestines, piles of filth fallen from burst abdomens, convulsed tumours, feebly quivering palpi, snapped extremities, blue tongues, a heavy sweetish odour of corpses... The result was something like a bloodletting and it must be said that it greatly invigorated me, and at the same time bleached my thoughts. I had a bath and began a new phase of measured existence. My habits changed. I distanced myself ever more frequently from the noise and vanity of the city. I spent ever more time in woods, gardens and parks, amidst brooks and breezes, observing the local ant heaps, sometimes casting a disapproving glance at passing dragonflies, my gaze caressing the swarms of dear little insects. The ants scurried among the knotgrass like birds in buckwheat, here and there they erected hills of their habitations, homes for their own kind, followed their occupations, and in the branches above squirrels leapt, gnawed pine nuts and occasionally the shadow of a solitary soaring snow goose floated past, I wanted to blend in and become part of nature and for hours lay deep among the ants, I wanted there to be an exchange of substances between myself and the grass around, an exchange of ants, although I never once found ants similar to mine in nature, let alone identical! In the evenings I wandered homewards through the incessant chirping of the cicadas, lazily flapping away swarms of importunate green woodpeckers, I listened to music, I came to myself: my musical tastes gradually changed, whereas previously my favourite singer was Tito Gobbi, now I decisively awarded the date palm of precedence to the hymns of Fonnico Ruffo. I fell asleep to the strains of his enchanting soprano, and there was no ant heap, no black sphere in my dreams. The head of a needle perhaps. More precisely some sort of point, a point in space smaller than an ant's eye and imbued with my vision, my consciousness, my memory, my desires, my name. And it turned out that it was no longer my consciousness, it was something larger... Again I do not know what to call it. This point appeared in a closed garden... On a hill, in the midst of emerald grass, in the trilling of birds, in the shadow of cascading trees, among the aroma of flowers, to sweet sounds, perhaps of a harp and the bourdon of bees... And next to it a beautiful lady, a girl... Always the same o n e . . . No, each time a different o n e . . . O, not a beggarly one, n o . . . In luxurious bright garments like a beautiful great butterfly, a swallowtail. RUSSIA Awaking, I refined my vision-dreams against the whetstone as a whole. It had restructured itself, significantly simplified of my consciousness, put my reason in charge of them. And its fundamental group, reduced it to about two tenths of at these times I very much wanted to marry and have a quiet those who had formed it, of whom only one tenth were free, family life, preferably a happy one. I dreamed of a quiet the ants had become stronger, more vigorous, united, now tender spouse, a young girl with long flaxen hair, with as one was indistinguishable from another, wherever they many lice as possible, and not only there, and not only them. emerged they were identical, in a word, the entire system had But all these tender, heavenly dreams were rudely shattered, taken an extraordinary and great leap forward. Having trampled upon by brazen reality. I do not even want to speak survived this catharsis, cleansed of filth, I understood that the of what followed... I put a small ad in the lonely hearts anteater had been a great test imposed upon me, I suppose, column, my main requirement was the presence of a great by the highest ant heap, by the blackeyed spirit, that I had quantity of insects upon my spouse, basically my heart was undergone an initiation, that now I know and believe that my set on blondes and lice. However, first of all, I met a flea- ant heap has now achieved its purpose, formed a mystic ridden brunette at a cocktail party, but alas — her fleas did union with the highest ant heap. Now I also discovered my not survive our first encounter and we parted. I already own sexual destiny. I set out for the city park, found the understood that the same thing would happen with the lousy largest ant heap under a juniper shrub and performed upon it Nibelungen blonde. And naturally I was not wrong. In this a solemn and sexual act. Thus was accomplished my second manner my matrimonial mania was cured. Thus I lived, birth, a birth from chaotic darkness, from a lost life swarming nothing formic was strange to me, but nevertheless the sexual with errors, into the eternal gleaming truth of the heavenly sphere-remained a blatantly vacant ecological niche in my ant heap to come, washed in unseen heavenly light, which I, universe. True, I learnt how to sense my womb, my testicles, begrimed with vice and sin, considered blackness. I believe from within, their orgasm covered me with gooseflesh, but that my soul, having cast aside the black sphere of a central that was all. But everything fell into place when I bought an point, will freely and joyfully soar towards that inexpressible anteater from the zoo. It was a highly unmarketable item and aphanitic ant heap, inhabited and dwelt in by ants that are they sold it to me with gladness and a collar, and cheaply too. themselves ant heaps incommensurably excelling my o w n . . . To tell you the truth I did not myself know why I was buying Therefore, now as I sense the approach of death with its it: intuition, pure intuition. Naturally the feeding of the lion's wings, I, at the threshold of transubstantiation, anteater posed no problems, but at first I fed it mainly from implore you: my hands. Then I expanded his menu and only much later Construct an ant heap upon my grave! Pile pine needles did we work out what and how it should be done, there were upon it! • actually two completely different methods. Have you ever seen an anteater, its snout, its mouth, from close up? Translated by Michael Molnar Probably not. Well then, its snout ends in a long vaginal horn with soft but muscular walls — cheeks much more pleasant Illustrations by Vladimir Sieladcov to the touch than a standard palate — and at the same time this horn is very narrow and presses firmly, tremulously, on all sides, especially when it makes a swallowing motion, which is how it reacts to any liquid in its mouth. But its tongue! It has an exceedingly long, soft tongue and its mastery of it knows no rival, neither do I. It could twist it into a spiral, form a spoon or a Moebius strip, could sting with the tip, could lick stickily, silently suck, could even administer a gentle beating, a scourging, as with twine, well what couldn't he do with it! We did not live long together, but I had become attached to him heart and soul, to my little bear, my pussycat. It all ended sadly. I left for two days, on an outing of young naturalists to exterminate all those singing birds that exterminate ants, and when I returned, he misjudged his own capacities, gorged, choked, suffocated and expired. I bitterly mourned him. At the zoo they told me that the production of anteaters had been suspended on account of total lack of demand from the general public. The loss was irreplaceable. Those were difficult days for me, days of torment, days of purgatory. But then I suddenly noticed that my Unnatural Deselection of ants had worked to the benefit of the ant heap INDEX O N CENSORSHIP 10/1993 15