Andre Malraux - Man's Fate

Chen Ta Erh, a Chinese terrorist.

Kyo Gisors, half French and half Japanese, one of the organizers of the Shanghai insurrection.

Old Gisors, Kyos father, one-time Professor of Sociology at the University of Peking.

May Gisors, Kyos wife.

Baron de Clappique, a Frenchman, a dealer in antiques, opium and smuggled wares.

Katov, a Russian, one of the organizers of the insurrection.

Hemmelrich, a German, a phonograph-dealer.

Lu Yu Hsan, his panner.

Kama, a Japanese painter, Old Gisors brother-in-law.

Ferral, President of the French Chamber of Commerce and head of the Franco-Asiatic Consortium.

Valerie, Ferrals mistress.

Martial, Chief of the Shanghai Police.

Konig, Chief of Chiang Kai-sheks Police.

Vologin, Possoz, Communist officials at Hankow.

Pei, Suan, young Chinese terrorists.

SHOULD he try to raise the mosquito-netting? Or should he strike through it? Chen was torn by anguish: he was sure of himself, yet at the moment he could feel nothing but bewilderment-his eyes riveted to the mass of white gauze that hung from the ceiling over a body less visible than a shadow, and from which emerged only that foot half-turned in sleep, yet living-human flesh.

The only light came from the neighboring building- a great rectangle of wan electric light cut by window- bars, one of which streaked the bed just below the foot as if to stress its solidity and life.

Four or five klaxons screamed at once. Was he discovered?

Oh, what a relief to fight, to fight enemies who defend themselves, enemies who are awake!

The wave of uproar subsided: some traffic jam (there were still traffic jams out there in the world of men-). He found himself again facing the great soft smudge of gauze and the rectangle of light, both motionless in this night in which time no longer existed.

He repeated to himself that this man must die- stupidly, for he knew that he would kill him. Whether he was caught or not, executed or not, did not matter. Nothing existed but this foot, this man whom he must strike without letting him defend himself-for if he defended himself, he would cry out.

Chen was becoming aware, with a revulsion verging on nausea, that he stood here, not as a fighter, but as a sacrificial priest. He was serving the gods of his choice; but beneath his sacrifice to the Revolution lay a world of depths beside which this night of crushing anguish was bright as day. To assassinate is not only to kill, alas.. In his pockets, his fumbling right hand clutched a folded razor, his left a short dagger. He thrust them as deeply as possible, as though the night did not suffice to hide his actions. The razor was surer, but Chen felt that he could never use it; the dagger disgusted him less. He let go the razor, the back of which pressed against his clenched fingers; the dagger was naked in his pocket. As he passed it over to his right hand, his left hand dropped against the wool of his sweater and remained glued to it. He raised his right arm slightly, petrified by the continued silence that surrounded him, as though he expected some unseen thing to topple over. But no-nothing happened: it was still up to him to act.

That foot lived like a sleeping animal. Was it attached to a body? I going mad? He had to see that body- see it, see that head. In order to do that-enter the area of light, let his squat shadow fall upon the bed.

What was the resistance of flesh? Convulsively, Chen pressed the point of the dagger into his left arm. The pain (he was no longer aware that it was his own arm), the certainty of torture if the sleeper were to awaken, released him for an instant: torture was better than this atmosphere of madness. He drew close. Yes, this was the man he had seen, two hours before, in broad daylight. The foot, which nearly touched Chens trousers, suddenly turn,ed like a key, then turned back to its position in the silent night. Perhaps the sleeper felt his presence, but not enough to wake up. Chen shuddered: an insect was running over his skin! No! blood trickling down his arm. And still that seasick feeling.

One single motion, and the man would be dead. To kill him was nothing: touching him was the impossible. And it was imperative to stab with precision.

The sleeper, lying on his back in the European-style bed, was wearing only a pair of short drawers, but his ribs were not visible under the full flesh. Chen had to take the nipples as gauging points. He tried holding the dagger with the blade up. But the left breast was the one away from him: he would have to strike at arms length through the mosquito-netting. He changed the position of the dagger: blade down. To touch this motionless body was as difficult as to stab a corpse, perhaps for the same reason. As if called forth by this notion of a corpse, a grating sound suddenly issued from the mans throat. Ch'en could no longer even draw back, for his legs and arms had gone completely limp. But the rattle became regular: the man was not dying, he was snoring. He again became living, vulnerable; and at the same time, Chen felt himself ridiculed. The body turned gently towards the right. Was he going to wake up now? With a blow that would have split a plank Chen struck through the gauze. Sensitive to the very tip of the blade, he felt the body rebound towards him, flung up by the springs of the bed. He stiffened his furiously to hold it down: like severed halves drawn to each other, the legs sprang together towards the chest; then they jerked out, straight and stiff. Chen should have struck again-but how was he to withdraw the dagger? The body, still on its side, was unstable, and instead of being reassured by the convulsion which had just shaken it, Chen had the impression of pinning it down to the bed with this short blade on which his whole weight rested.

Through the great gash in the mosquito-netting, he could see very clearly; the eyelids open-had he been able to wake up? the eyeballs white. Around the dagger the blood was beginning to flow, black in that deceptive light. In its balanced weight the body still held life. Chen could not let go the handle. A current of unbearable anguish passed between the corpse and himself, through the dagger, his stiffened arm, his aching shoulder, to the very depth of his chest, to his convulsive hean-the only moving thing in the room. He was utterly motionless; the blood that continued to flow from his left arm seemed to be that of the man on the bed. Although outwardly nothing had happened, he was suddenly certain that this man was dead. Scarcely breathing, he held the corpse down-as firmly as ever-on its side-held it thus in the dim motionless light, in the solitude of the room.

Nothing bore witness to the struggle-not even the tear in the gauze, which seemed to have been divided into two strips-nothing but the silence and the overpowering intoxication into which he was sinking. Cut off from the world of the living, he clung to his dagger. His grip became increasingly tighter, but his arm-muscles relaxed and his entire arm began to tremble. It was not fear-it was a dread at once horrible and solemn, which he had not experienced since childhood: he was alone with death, alone in a place without men, limply crushed by horror and by the taste of blood.

He managed to open his hand. The body sagged gently, face down, pressing the handle sideways. A dark blot began to spread on the sheet, grew like a living thing. And beside it, growing too, appeared the shadow of two pointed ears.