The workers’ parade was already nearing the square. The first thing Ri saw was a blur of colour, predominantly red, but with streaks of blue, green and yellow. These were the colours of models, flags and emblems, striking against the black background of human figures. Posters were being carried in almost every row, huge portraits of leaders inked onto canvas, portraits so large that Ri could make out Stalin’s face though she was far from the parade below. Weaving through the crowd of colours, his face was always the same, stern, with a wry smile. She could see the eyes clearest of all, eyes narrowed into an expression that was at once reproachful, and yet somehow benevolent and encouraging, and it seemed to her that those eyes were focusing directly on her, Ri, the wife of a foreign engineer on the third floor of the foreigners’ hotel. She could not avoid their gaze, duplicated as it was by the many thousands of posters. And still the human stream continued to flow, new waves always appearing, the parade apparently endless. Ri was overwhelmed, crushed, silenced and helpless. She felt as if she were staring into a tornado, a natural disaster which was about to sweep away everything that stood before it; there were so many people that they ceased to be individuals, becoming instead an unknown and incomprehensible force, unearthly, uncontrollable. Ri is still alive only because the stream cannot rise to such heights and drag her down, though she fears it is somehow still possible and so grips the edge of the desk by her window. She now knows that there can be no thoughts of battle. How foolish she feels! To struggle against a tornado that destroys everything in its wake! She is humiliated, silent. She must resign herself to doing everything, anything. She will go to a factory, become a cleaner perhaps, or a labourer, she will lug timber in the factory courtyard or work the lathe, everything is at an end. She must serve, humbly serve this world, she cannot fight it, she wants simply to live. Live as the lowliest of the low, live, breathe and eat. There is no battle, there is no reconciliation, only servitude remains. She can escape from her solitude through humility alone, she cannot hide or close herself off, there is no hiding place or den into which the narrowed, hawk-like eyes from those posters cannot peer. But to love this world as Robert does, no, she cannot love this world; is it even possible to love a tornado, is it possible to scream into the storm for it to stop?

The workers’ parade was nearing the square now. At first Ri could see a blur of colours. The red prevailed, but it was surrounded on all sides by blues, greens and yellows. They were the colours of models, banners and emblems, which contrasted with the black background of the human shapes. In almost every row of the parade they carried pictures, large portraits of their leaders drawn in Indian ink on canvas, portraits so great, that even from the height which separated her from the parade, Ri could make out Stalin’s face. It was always the same, weaving its way among the colours, stern, smiling ironically. Ri saw the eyes best, the eyes squinting in an ironic, sometimes reproachful, sometimes benevolent and encouraging smile, and it seemed to her that those eyes were looking at her, Ri, the wife of a foreign engineer on the third floor of the foreigners’ hotel. She could not avoid their thousandfold gaze. But the flood of humans flowed on, row upon row: the parade was endless. Ri was stunned, crushed, silent, helpless. It was as if she were watching a tornado, some creature that swept away all that stood in its path. There were so many people that they were no longer humans but some unknown, incomprehensible power, unearthly, unfathomable. Ri is still alive, because the flood cannot swell to such a height and cannot sweep her away, but Ri believes it really could be possible, and clings frantically to the edge of the desk by the window. Now she knows there can be no word of a struggle. How ridiculous she feels! Fighting a tempest crushing everything in its path! She is humbled, silenced. She will reconcile herself with it, do everything, anything. She will go to a factory, perhaps become a cleaner or worker, she will haul slabs in the factory yard or stand by the lathe, now everything is over. She will serve, humbly serve this world. She cannot resist, she just wants to live. Live like the lowest of the low. Live, breathe and eat. There is no struggle, no reconciliation, just service. She can only redeem herself from her solitude with humility. She can neither hide, nor shut herself away. There is no hiding place or hole where those squinting, hawkish eyes in the portraits could not strike. But to love this world like Robert does? She cannot love this world. How can you love a tempest? How can you cry out at a storm for it to stop?

The workers’ procession was already approaching the square. The first thing that Ri saw was a blur of colours. The colour red predominated, but it was hemmed in on every side by blue, green and yellow - the colours of the effigies, standards and emblems, which contrasted with the dark background of human figures. In almost every row of the procession, portraits were shouldered - huge likenesses of the leaders drawn in Indian ink on canvas, portraits so enormous that even from where she stood, high above the procession, Ri could make out Stalin’s face. Always identical - severe and ironical smiling - it weaved its way through the colours. Ri could see the eyes best of all – the eyes narrowed in an ironical smile, slightly reproachful, slightly condescending and encouraging – and she felt that those eyes were fixed on her, Ri, the wife of the foreign engineer on the third floor of the foreigners’ hotel. She could not evade their thousand-fold gaze. And the human tide flowed on, with new columns appearing all the time; the procession was endless. Ri felt overwhelmed, crushed, silenced and impotent. It was as if she were watching a tornado, a natural force sweeping away everything in its path. There were so many people that they were no longer people, but instead an alien and inscrutable force – unearthly and nameless. Ri was still alive only because the human flood could not reach high enough to drag her away (though Ri fancied that it just might be possible, so she held tightly to the edge of the writing desk by the window). She now realised that any kind of struggle was out of the question. How ridiculous she felt! Struggling with a whirlwind that crushed everything in its path! She was humbled and silent. She would come to terms with it; she’d do anything, anything at all. She’d get a job in a factory – a cleaner, a worker, whatever. She’d haul planks in a factory yard or stand at a lathe – it was all over now. She’d serve this world and serve it meekly. There was no way to resist, she simply wanted to live – to live as the lowest of the low, to live, breathe and eat. There was no struggle, there was no compromise; all that remained was service. Submission was the only way to save herself from isolation. She could not even hide or shut herself away; there was no hiding place or burrow that could not be penetrated by those narrowed hawkish eyes from the portraits. But it was impossible for her to love this world the way Robert did. Was it possible to love a whirlwind – was it possible to shout at the storm to cease?