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Off the square, by the mailbox, where the voracious ants of memory quickly and efficiently unraveled the last fibers of the past from the present moment, stood Bruno’s uncle, Hieronymus. It seemed that the man was having a ghastly experience, that the transformations of the new age were putting his frail guess at existence to an impossible test: he trembled and shivered. He perspired and panted. Aunt Retitia looked on despairingly, and didn’t dare touch him. Strange lumps protruded from his elegant suit, now here, now there. No one clearly understood what was going on, perhaps not even Uncle himself. He leaned heavily against the mailbox (which was also full of chirping as the various components of the letters and the words and feelings in them were dismantled—the ones that had been sent before the new revolution) and listened with closed eyes and a tortured face to the stormy argument within.

And then it happened, that which our poor language is incapable of documenting but can only report as a dry, pale protocol: suddenly Uncle’s agonized body gave off a light explosive sound, and a deep sigh of relief, and he became “two.” The long battle between him and the old lion in the tapestry had suddenly ended with an unexpected but mutually beneficial reconciliation, and they succeeded at last in pooling their resources to untie the knot of animosity that had choked them both for years, at the price of a small compromise on Uncle’s part, an agreement to make himself a little smaller inside so there would be room for the lion, and they would now both be able to carry on, living the tolerable and perhaps even pleasant life of a couple.

Yes. Clearly they were very well suited to each other. Because their long and violent struggles during which the lion trapped in the tapestry would rear and roar faintly while Uncle barked—had in effect occluded the fierce attraction and desperate desire between these two lonely and imprisoned hearts, too vain to admit as much. And Aunt Retitia, of whom I have always been fond, and whom everyone considered to be a dam of rationality between two stormy lakes of madness, was now exposed in all her fanatical, petty wretchedness, and everyone saw that her existence was only justified as a representation of the old view, “law and order,” tranquillity in its most banal sense, and indeed now, with her raison d’être gone—Oh, I could no longer look at what was happening to her there, next to the red mailbox, and, oh no, on the ground …

“Go ahead and look,” said Bruno with mild satisfaction. “She isn’t there anymore.”

When I refused to raise my eyes, Bruno whispered comfortingly, “People like Aunt Retitia, Shloma, are the secondhand souls I spoke of; they have existence only as secondary vessels, feeding on the creative tension of the bulk of mankind who are doubtless original creators, and their existence is justified only as a constant warning to us all of the terrible dangers in store for us should they disappear … Ah, Shloma, from the look on your face it is evident that all this is very frightening to you … very strange to you … but you see, this is our chance to live anew, with the meaning you and I intend, otherwise we’re statues, trapped from birth till death, and we have no hope of being rescued from the rock in which a wise, wise and perhaps not very ingenious, or ingenious but not very merciful, sculptor has carved a bas relief. And the Messiah, Shloma, is the one who calls us to freedom, who releases us from the stone, sends us flying weightless through the square like confetti to re-create our lives with every passing minute and write epics in impetuous rendezvous, because by now it must be as clear to you as it is to me that all other roads lead to failure, to defeat, to prison, to the old culture that contracted elephantiasis …”

I was silent. I was furious at his exaggerated self-confidence, and the conceit that made him think everyone thought as he did. Naturally I do not dispute certain of his ideas, but such an extreme revolution has to be carefully weighed and planned, to give it a basis and a system. I threw a look at poor Aunt Retitia and felt nauseated again. Better not look! Such a cruel end might also befall certain others. By the way, I deliberately said “end” and not “death,” because it would be hard to describe what happened to the good aunty as “death”: beside the red mailbox, on the cobblestones, was a pile of strange debris, like sawdust: this no doubt was the residue of all the adjectives, nouns, and verbs for which Aunty had served as conjunction. A cool, indifferent heap. “As in life,” says Bruno, who listens in on all my thoughts. “And in fact she is not dead, Shloma, because she never really was alive, alive in the sense that you and I … etc. And of course I’m certain you didn’t suspect for a minute that I would do away with anyone in order to bring happiness to others?”

I turned away angrily. The square was shaken again. It seems that some of the terror that marked the beginning of the new age had now been eliminated. As happens when forests burn to ashes, here, too, the forces of life resurged, and the first green shoots began to appear: families broke up, and their transparent threads remained in spools allover the square, while new, transient families appeared, sometimes as single persons, who in this remarkable way found a happiness they had never known with spouse and children. New friendships fused between people we had never imagined to have anything in common: amiable Adolf Arendt, the little drawing master, was deeply involved (quite embarrassingly, to my mind) with crazy Tuoya, and interlocking over their heads like horns were glorious opportunities for flights of fancy; Bruno’s