One morning, after a long night of troubled dreams, a cockroach awoke to unusual sensations. At first, as if still thinking it all a dream, it stood for some moments in a pleasant stupor, regarding lazily the various forms and sensations that drifted in and out of its mind. But as time passed, however, and they cohered, reified themselves, so to speak, into a face here, an arm there, the last veils of sleep were suddenly torn from the cockroach's eyes and it sprang awake at once in total bewilderment.

 

—What a strange sensation, it thought. Whatever was I just thinking about?

 

For some time it stood in a daze, then all of a sudden flinched and waved its feelers about madly; there was nothing, however.

 

—How unusual, it thought again.

 

For it was almost sure there was something in the air. Unsure, it kept its feelers up and continued regarding the air with suspicion. At any rate, it could no longer bear to stay still: a strange anxiety, it felt, was upon it. It began scurrying up and down the walls to distract itself, but time and time again some remnant of its troubled dreams would light up its mind; sordid dreams which aroused then no small amount of ecstasy, but which now brought only anxiety. A vision, suddenly, of a woman's face seared itself across its mind. It was unmistakable. Unbelievable. Again it flinched and scurried around in confusion. With more panic this time it thought:

 

—What's happening to me?

 

More than anything it wished now to ram itself again and again into a wall to rid itself of this depravity. Instead it hurried off to find the others.

* 

At once they all raised their feelers to the air and swung them about.

 

—But there's nothing, one of them said.

 

—Not the air. Myself. Something strange. Something terrible.

 

—What's that?

 

—Like I'm being watched. Like there's something dreadful. In the air.

 

—But there's nothing.

* 

The cockroach, sensing it was on the cusp of something terrible, could not stay still. For hours it scurried round, turning circles about the floor, running up and down the walls, and even spinning about the ceiling. Sometimes in despair it would stuff itself into the cracks of the walls, but there even it felt the gaze of something awful and so would spring out at once.

 

Hour by hour the cockroach wore itself out, scurrying about until it could no longer. Slowly it staggered into the darkness of its corner, closing its eyes and wishing that all this was some sordid nightmare.

*

They seemed to lilt and to soar, those notes which had, like a rope let fall from heaven, drawn it up from its well of sleep and bade it move. For why, yes, it was moving, how curious, it did not remember when it awoke, only that it was moving, moving by the melody, moving past the others. They were in the body of a dead rat. They called out to it:

 

—Join us!

 

—Join us!

 

But it did not respond. For it was beautiful, following that melody, through the little nooks and shafts until a vast room opened up before it and in which its eyes were pierced by such light. Still it could see her, there was no mistake, it was her, sitting there against that blazing window, haloed by the sun, jacketed in gold, never had it seen such.

*

In the darkness of its corner for a long time it stood unmoving. Everything around it, it felt, had come to be repulsive. The floor was repulsive. The walls were repulsive. Even the very air it breathed became repulsive. And more than anything, it could no longer stand the sight of itself. Just a single glimpse would be enough to drive it mad.

*

The piano, the desk, the balcony, the reading chair—these places, to which before it paid not the slightest attention, now seemed to have emerged from the darkness to assume an astonishing significance. For the most part, she was at the desk. Sometimes the piano when she was tired, or when the balcony when she was frustrated. There were flowers there, plants of all sorts. She loved them. She loved them very much. And when the day grew dark she would usually be at the reading chair, though on some days it was nothing but the desk. All this was obvious. Today she was finishing her piece early because she skipped her scales. Luckily, it had guessed as much and hurried off earlier with its gift.

*

Easing herself slowly into her chair, she found, by her mug, a purple lilac floret. How curious, she smiled. It was beautiful. Gently she cupped her fingers around it and raised it to her nose. Immediately she flung it away. It smelled of vermin.

*

For hours now, often, it would sit unmoving in the darkness of its nest. Dimly it sensed that the others used to try and speak to it, but that now they no longer did. Whenever it grew restless, it would ram itself into the wall, again and again, until it was tired. Food, too, no longer seemed to interest it.

 

Every day now, it would wait only for one thing, and that was the darkness. Every day now, as evening melded into night, as, one by one, the lights of the house went out, it would wait patiently for the darkness.

*

The lovely darkness. Slowly, always, like a child, it would poke its head out through the crack, always a nervous moment or two, and then out it would burst, spilling itself across the tiles, under the tables, the chairs, the corners, searching always, breathlessly, for every exquisite strand. And never would it tire, night after night, for with each strand always it was a discovery, a cartography, and it was only in this way, gathering up mournfully the remains of the day, that it could ever see what it could not see, that it could feel what it could not feel. And, indeed—on occasion, on those rare occasions, as might an archaeologist tremble when, with the careful brush of a spade, the golden rim of a goblet reveals itself, so would the cockroach, stumbling upon some flake of dead skin, be jolted into the depths of its being.

 

And when all was finished, always it would spend the daybreak in the balcony, crawling about the little pots, winding up the stems of all the little flowers and the little plants, asking of them each, their secrets, their magic, and of why she loved them so.

*

Now only in its corner was it ever at peace. It had made a little sanctuary for itself out of her hair, and whenever it fell into despair, it needed only to take a nibble. Sometimes they still spoke to it, but it rarely answered. A goner, they said. But no, it thought, they were wrong. It had a plan.

*

It was going to be beautiful. It had found an empty pot, only some soil, and it was burrowing now, burrowing and burrowing. At first it was hard, its legs weren't made for digging, but bit by bit it was burrowing into the soil. It would take a little time, but someday she would see. They didn't believe, they had said it was insane. Yes, they said:

 

—What's with you. Got some kind of sick.

 

But no, it was not sick. It was perfectly well. It saw very well, better than the whole lot of them, how things were. For it was going to grow into a beautiful flower, yes. That was how it was going to be, but they just didn't see it. It had watched her for a long time. She put stuff in pots and took care of them and they grew up into lovely. They were magic pots. She was magic. But it would take time, maybe a very long time, so it would have to be patient, it would have to keep waiting there, however long it takes, and one day, one fine day, it would happen, it would turn into a flower, yes, a beautiful flower, the most beautiful flower.