"Stanislaw Lem - Ijon Tichy 03 - The Futurological Congress" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lem Stanislaw)

long accustomed to doing without, busied themselves among us, seeking spot interviews with various
foreign luminaries of prognostication. Instead of the United States ambassador, only the third secretary of
the Embassy showed up, and with an enormous bodyguard; he was the only one wearing a tuxedo,
perhaps because it would have been difficult to hide a bulletproof vest beneath a pair of pajamas. I
learned that the guests from the city had been frisked in the lobby; supposedly there was already a
growing pile of discovered weapons there. The meetings themselves were not to begin until five, which
meant we had time to relax, so I returned to my room on the hundredth. I was terribly thirsty from the
oversalted slaw, but since the bar on my floor had now been seized and occupied by the student
protesters-dynamiters and their girls—and anyway one conversation with that bearded papist (or
antipapist) had been quite enough—I made do with a glass of water from the bathroom sink. The next
thing I knew, all the lights were out, and the telephone, no matter what number I dialed, kept connecting
me with an automated recording of the story of Rapunzel. I tried to take the elevator down, but it too
was out of order. The students were singing in chorus, shooting their guns in time to the music—in the
other direction, I hoped. Such things happen even in the best hotels, which doesn't make them any the
less aggravating, yet what perplexed me the most were my own reactions. My mood, fairly sour since
that conversation with the Pope's assassin, was now improving by the minute. Groping about in my room,
I overturned some furniture and chuckled indulgently in the dark; even when I cracked my knee against a
suitcase it didn't diminish my feeling of good will towards all mankind. On the night table I found the
remains of the brunch I'd had sent up to my room, took one of the convention folders, rolled it up and
stuck it in the leftover butter, then lit it with a match: that made a sort of torch—it sputtered and smoked,
but gave enough light. After all, I had more than two hours to kill, counting on at least an hour on the
staircase, since the elevator wasn't working. I sat back in an armchair and observed with the greatest
interest the fluctuations and changes that were taking place within me. I was cheerful, I was never
happier. No end of reasons for this wonderful state of affairs came rushing to my mind. In all seriousness
it seemed to me that this hotel room, plunged in Stygian darkness, filled with stench and floating ashes
from a homemade torch, totally cut off from the rest of the world, with a telephone that told fairy
tales—was one of the nicest places on the face of the earth. Moreover I felt an irresistible urge to pat
someone on the head, or at least squeeze a hand and look long and soulfully into a pair of eyes.
I would have embraced and kissed the most implacable enemy. The butter, melting, hissed and spat,
and the thought that the butter might sputter and make the flame gutter was so hilarious that I burst out
laughing, though my fingers were burnt relighting the paper whenever the torch went out. In the flickering
light I hummed arias from old operettas, paying no heed to the bitter smoke that made me gag, or the
tears streaming down my cheeks. Standing up, I tripped and fell, crashing into a trunk on the floor; the
bump on my head swelled to the size of an egg, but that only put me in a better humor (to the extent that
that was possible). I giggled, choking in the searing smoke, which in no way lowered my spirits. I climbed
into bed; it still hadn't been made, though this was already the afternoon. The maids responsible for such
neglect—I thought of them as my very own children: nothing but sugary words and gushing baby talk
came to my lips. It occurred to me that even if I were to suffocate here, that would be the most amusing,
the most agreeable kind of death any man could ask for. This thought was so blatantly contrary to my
nature, that it had a sobering effect. A curious dissociation arose within me. As before, my soul was filled
with light and languor, an all-embracing tenderness, a love of everything that existed, while my hands
simply itched to fondle and stroke someone—it didn't matter who—till in the absence of any such third
person I began to caress my own cheeks and chuck myself fondly under the chin; my right hand
proffered itself to my left for a hearty shake. Even the feet, trembling eagerly, wanted to join in. And yet,
throughout all this, distress signals were flashing on in the depths of my being: "Something's wrong!" cried
a far-off, tiny voice inside. "Careful, Ijon, watch your step, be on your guard! This good weather can't be
trusted! Come now, one-two-three, snap out of it! Don't sit there sprawled like some Onassis, weeping
from the smoke, a bump on your head and universal loving-kindness in your heart! It's a trap, there's
treachery afoot!" Though I didn't budge an inch. Yet my throat was exceedingly dry and the blood did
pound in my ears (but that was due, no doubt, to the sudden rush of happiness). Driven by a powerful