...of a sanctum

An elderly man approached and went into one of the lavatories. Moments later he left; we listened to the whispers of the exhausted waterfall. 'But there is one thing you have to do if you intend to sit inside for any length of time,' my friend said. He removed a wad of cotton from his pocket. In it was a small flask of cleaning fluid. 'There are all sorts of markings in there,' he explained, 'messages and slogans scrawled on the walls of the toilets. Many of them clearly the work of counter-revolutionaries. The temples are, apparently, the only place that they can safely discharge their resentment against the regime, against the collective farms, the purge trials and foreign policies, and even against the cult of our omnipotent leader. You see,' my friend continued, 'I have to be prepared for anyone who accuses me of having scribbled these heresies while sitting in here for a more than normal period. So I begin by wiping off every word on the walls. Then, if I'm asked by a policeman or a detective why I spend so much time in the lavatory, I have a valid and innocent answer. After all, a philosopher once wrote, "Gods and temples are not easily set up; to establish them rightfully is the work of a mighty intellect." All of these erasures are a small price to pay for possessing a temple of one's own, don't you think?'
In spite of his fears and apprehensions he faithfully attended all the meetings and seminars. I remember one occasion when the professor asked him to comment upon a political doctrine recently implemented by the Party. He rose, pale and sweating, yet trying to look composed and impersonal; he answered that certain aspects of the doctrine seemed to mirror perfectly the many oppressive aspects of the total state, and for this reason it lacked all humanity. Silence fell. Without comment, the professor gestured for him to sit down. There was a commotion among the students: several Party members got up and noisily left the room. We knew he was doomed.
We continued our studies together until the end of the semester, and then I lost contact with the Philosopher. He had been removed from the university for his antisocial behaviour. One of the university officials told me afterwards that the man was no longer alive. He almost sneered as he recounted the sordid circumstances of his suicide in a lavatory. I was silent.

[Steps, Kosinski, J.]