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?