(The room of the First and the New Student. Late at night. The New Student is asleep. The First Student sits at his desk, writing by lamplight. He reads aloud as he writes, quietly, so as not to wake him.)
The guillotine was gone this morning. The lawn was empty. The grass was not even disturbed, as far as I could tell.
I do not know whether they used it.
I have been thinking about what Stalin said. That the punished are rarely the audience. That everybody else is.
If that is true, then it was for us.
Maybe all of it.
The exam. The explosion. The handcuffed couple crossing the courtyard. The guillotine.
All of it just for us.
I am not sure whether that makes it better or worse.
He is breathing so quietly. I listened to him for a while before I sat down to write. I am not sure why I did that.
His name is difficult to say. Not because of the syllables. Because of what saying it feels like.
I will not write it here.
Two years to graduation. Perhaps less, if the accelerated programme continues. The Director mentioned it last week. He did not say what we would be accelerating toward.
My father asks about employment prospects. He uses those exact words. Employment prospects. He asked them when I won the scholarship. He asked them again when I wrote to tell him about the curriculum. I did not reply in full.
I do not know what one does with a degree from this institution. I suspect the institution knows what it does with us. I have some hopes so. I think I am doing well here.
Despite. Despite…
Napoleon asked me the other day whether I enjoyed his birthday cake. I told him I liked it although it was really a bit sweet. He said that made him happy, that the Caretaker had made it herself. Then he fell asleep.
I have been trying to decide whether I can consider him a friend. I mean he saved my bloody life. But the word sounds wrong. Not because of him. Because of me.
There is a before and there is an after.
Before the explosion. After the explosion. Before the fragment. After the fragment.
Before him.