It was late now, almost midnight, and the Ball had reached a fever pitch of intensity. For the young women, the days of hard work were behind them, the long vacation ahead, while for the young men, cadets and commissioned officers alike, there was a sense of temporary surcease from the rigors of duty. Tonight was a night for celebration, for high spirits and wild excess. Some lay in the corridors leading off the terrace, slumped in drunken stupor, while others cavorted wildly at the edges of the crowd, howling manically, their formal jackets unbuttoned or cast aside. Most, however, had found partners and could be found pressed close in that central darkness, washed over by a heavy pulse of sound, willing victims of those old, insistent currents.
Jelka stood there at the center of that great crush, cradling an empty glass, alone at last and conscious, for the first time that evening, just how awful it was. The heat was stifling, the noise oppressive, while to every side the crowd pressed in on her relentlessly; a great tide of bodies, male and female, jerking and swaying to the ancient rhythms of the pipes and drums.
For a moment longer she stood there, hemmed in, wondering if she should wait for her escort to return from the bar, then she turned and began to make her way across. She was aware of the unnatural excitement in the faces that she passed; of the feverish brightness of their eyes, the sudden, excessive animation of their features. There was something strange and frightening about it all, a sense of primal urgency, almost of hysteria.
Outside it was cooler, quieter. Jelka stood there at the top of the steps, gulping in the cold, refreshing air and staring about her, as if waking from some dark and threatening dream. Overhead, a very real-looking moon shone down on her from the artificial sky, casting a painted light upon the distant mountains, while to her left a faint breeze rippled the dark lake's surface, scattering petals on the white stone arch of the bridge that led across to the island and the great watchtower.
Away, she thought. I have to get away.
She set her glass down on the steps, then made her way down, out onto the path that led to the bridge, half running now, as if pursued. Halfway down, however, she stopped and turned, staring back at it all, her mouth wide open, as if stupefied. Then, with a faint shudder, she went on.
At the foot of the watchtower she stopped again, staring up at its brightly lit face. It was two minutes to midnight. Twelve years she had been here at the Academy; twelve years, not including the time she had spent in exile with her father and that time she had been ill, after the attack. And in all that time she had never—not once—felt at home here. She had stood there earlier, listening to the other girls say how much they'd miss the dear old place; had heard them profess to a genuine love for its strange old ways and nonsensical rules, but for herself she felt nothing; only a strange relief that it was over. And a sense of emptiness—of something unfulfilled in her.
She turned briefly, looking back, wondering if she had been missed yet, then moved on quickly, climbing the broad yet shallow steps up to the open doorway. Inside, in the shadows just inside the door, a couple was leaning against the wall, kissing, her hand at his neck, his arm about her lower back. She hesitated, watching them a moment, then tiptoed by, making her way up to the first level and the little room at the front of the tower, above the clock.
She closed the door behind her, then went across and sat on the box beside the window, her elbows on the mock-stone of the window ledge, looking back across the lake at the crowded terrace. From a distance it seemed a kind of madness, a mass delirium. As if, for once, they had glimpsed the hollowness of it all. Glimpsed it and turned away, drowning themselves in this frenzy of thoughtless activity.
She rested her chin on her hands and sighed. Coming here tonight had been a mistake. She should have trusted to instinct and stayed at home. But now it was too late.
Too late? Too late for what!
That small, inner voice—that never-resting, ever-questioning part of her—was what kept her at a distance from it all; was what made her different from the others. At school she had always been something of an outsider, right from the first. Not that she had been unpopular; it was simply that she had never formed any of those close relationships that the other girls seemed to need. Some had tried, like Anna and Yi Pang-chou, but they could only get so close before she clammed up on them. "It's because of the attacks," Anna had said to her once. "It's only natural that you should mistrust the world after what happened to you." And maybe th&t was true to an extent. Maybe those experiences had shaped her. But the explanation was somehow insufficient, for she had always felt like this. From the cradle on. There had always been a space unfilled in her. A lack. But tonight it was different . somehow. Tonight the sheer intensity of what she felt was new to her.
Looking back at the dance floor, she saw not celebration and the joyous blossoming of new life, but a mechanistic orgy of self-denial; of deadness incarnate. It was pretense; pretense on a vast scale. It began with the great City in which they lived and spread like a virus to infect every pore, every cell of their individual beings. And now there was nothing. Nothing but meaningless activity and a desperate filling of the hours. A willful forgetting.
She turned her head, her eyes sweeping the familiar landscape of the College grounds, taking it all in. The star-filled sky, the moon, the distant mountains; it was false, every last tiny bit of it. The arched stone bridge, the lake, the ancient building. Manufactured, all of it; a substitute for life, conjured from nothingness.
Too late.
She shuddered. It was true. Never had she felt so alienated from it all. Never so alone.
I am trapped, she thought. Trapped in the world of levels.
On the steps beside the dance floor there was movement. A young cadet officer had stepped out onto the top step and now stood there, looking about him, a glass in each hand.
Jelka shivered and drew her head back, into the shadows.
He looked down and spotted the empty glass, then turned back, craning to see where she had gone. Then he came on, negotiating the steps smartly, elegantly, his manner—the very way he walked— assured and arrogant. Unquestioning. On he came, along the path and up onto the gentle arch of the bridge. For a moment he stood there, looking about him casually, as if taking in the view, then he walked on, glancing up at the watchtower, as if he could see her, there in the shadows beyond the window frame.
She moved back, then stood, looking about her. There was no way out. The floor above was locked. But maybe he would go away. The couple. . .
She heard noises from below; an angry grunt and then a murmured, "Excuse me, I. . . ," followed by the sound of booted feet ringing on the stairs.
She turned, facing the doorway, watching as it slowly opened.
"Ah, there you are," he said softly, smiling at her. "I thought. . ."
He held out her glass to her, as if she should take it, but she simply stood there, staring at him. He frowned, not understanding, then, stooping carefully, watching her all the while, he set the glasses down.
The jacket of his dress uniform seemed to glow in the light from the window. The rich scent he wore filled the tiny room.
He hesitated, then came closer. "You should have said," he said gently. "I thought you liked the music."
She could feel his breath on her cheek now; could smell the sweetness of the wine. As if in a dream she saw his right hand lift and press gently against her left shoulder, as if they were about to dance.
"Don't. . ."
"Just one kiss," he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. "Just one tiny, little kiss..."