The Early Ayn Rand

When they walked out, the sky was red behind the monastery towers, a shivering red, as if the light were dying in gasps. The monastery looked silently upon them, with small barred windows like reluctant eyes opened upon a sinful world, guarded by menacing saints of gray stone; cold evening shadows settled in the wrinkles of the saints' faces cut by reverent hands, stormy winds, and centuries. A thick stone wall encircled the shore, and sentinels walked slowly on the wall, with measured steps, with bayonets red in the sunset, with heads bowed in resignation, watchful and weary like the saints by the windows.

"The prisoners aren't locked up in their cells here," Commandant Kareyev explained to her. "They have the freedom to move around. There's not much space to move in. It's safe."

"They get tired of the island, don't they?"

"They go mad. Not that it matters. It's the last place they'll see on earth."

"And when they die?"

"Well, no room for a cemetery here. But a strong current."

"Has anyone ever tried to escape?"

"They forget the word when they land here."

"And yourself?"

He looked at her, without understanding. "Myself?"

"Have you ever tried to escape?"

"From whom?"

"From Commandant Kareyev."

"Come on. What are you driving at?"

"Are you happy here?"

"No one's forcing me to stay."

"I said: are you happy?"

"Who cares about being happy? There's so much work to be done in the world."

"Why should it be done?"

"Because it's one's duty."

"To whom?"

"When it's duty, you don't ask why and to whom. You don't ask any questions. When you come up against a thing about which you can't ask any questions — then you know you're facing your duty."

She pointed far out at the darkening sea and asked:

"Do you ever think of what lies there, beyond the coast? Of the places where I came from?"

He answered, shrugging contemptuously:

"The best of that world beyond the coast is right here."

"And that is?"

"My work."

He turned and walked back to the monastery. She followed obediently.

They walked down a long corridor where barred windows threw dark crosses on the floor, over the red squares of dying light, and figures of saints writhed on ancient murals. From behind every door furtive eyes watched the stranger. The eyes were eager and contemptuous at once. Commandant Kareyev did not notice them; Joan was braver — she did, and walked on, not caring.

They had reached the foot of the stairs where, at tall windows, a group of prisoners loitered, as if by chance, aimlessly studying the sunset.

Her foot was on the first step when a cry stopped her, the kind of cry she would have heard if the martyrs of the murals had suddenly found voice.

"Frances!"

Michael Volkontzev stood grasping the banister, barring her way. Many people were looking at his face, but his face looked like a thing that should not be seen.

"Frances! What are you doing here?"

The men around them could not understand the question, because of the way his voice sounded — and because he spoke it in English.

Her face was cool and blank and a little astonished — politely, indifferently astonished. She looked straight at him, her eyes calm and open.

"I beg your pardon," she said, in Russian. "I don't believe I know you."

Kareyev stepped between them and seized Michael's shoulder, asking:

"Do you know her?"

Michael looked at her, at the stairway, at the men around them.

"No," he muttered. "I was mistaken."

"I warned you," said Kareyev angrily, and threw him out of the way, against the wall. Joan turned and walked up the steps. Kareyev followed.

The prisoners watched Michael pressed to the wall, as he had fallen, not moving, not straightening himself, only his eyes watching her go up and his head nodding slowly as if counting each step.

There was no door to connect Joan's cell with Commandant Kareyev's. For five years Commandant Kareyev had not spoken to a woman, but almost forty years had gone before he had ever spoken to a woman like this guest of his. She was his prize, his reward, the pawn from the red republic for the hours and years of his life, for his blood, for his gray hair. She was his as his salary, as the rations of bread citizens got on their provision cards. But she had helpless white fingers and cool eyes that did not invite and did not forbid and looked at him with an open, wondering calm beyond his understanding. He had waited for five years; he could wait one night longer.

He had closed his door and listened. He could hear the moaning of waves outside; and the steps of sentinels on the wall; and the rustle of her long dress against the stone floor, in the next cell.