حرکت سیاسی

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کتاب های فوق متوسط

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PART TWO Acts Against the Party

Chapter 5 A Political ACT

Four days later he saw the girl with dark hair again. He was walking to the toilets at the Ministry of Truth and she was coming towards him. She had hurt her hand. She had probably hurt it on one of the story- writing machines — it was a common accident in that department.

The girl was about four metres away when she fell forwards.

As she fell, she hit her hand again and cried out in pain. Winston stopped. The girl got to her knees. Her face had turned a milky yellow colour, making her mouth look redder than ever. She looked at him and her face seemed to show more fear than pain.

Winston felt a strange mix of emotions. In front of him was an enemy who was trying to kill him: in front of him, also, was a human being, in pain and perhaps with a broken bone. Already he had started to help her. He felt that her pain was in some strange way his own.

‘You’re hurt?’ he said.

‘It’s nothing. M y arm. I t ‘ ll be all right in a second.’

He helped her up.

‘It’s nothing,’ she repeated. ‘Thanks, Comrade.’

She walked away quickly. Winston was standing in front of a telescreen, so he did not show any surprise on his face, although it was difficult not to. As he had helped her up, she had put something in his hand.

It was a piece of paper. He opened it carefully in his hand in the toilet, but did not try to read it. You could be certain the telescreens would be watching in the toilets. Back in his office, he put the piece of paper down on his desk among the other papers.

A few minutes later he pulled it towards him, with the next job he had to do. On it, in large letters, was written: / love you.

For the rest of the morning it was very difficult to work. At lunchtime in the canteen the fool Parsons, still smelling of sweat, did not stop talking to him about all the work he was doing for Hate Week.

He saw the girl at the other end of the canteen, at a table with two other girls, but she did not look in his direction. In the afternoon he looked at the words I love you again and life seemed better. He believed her. He did not think she was in the Thought Police, not now. He wanted to see her again. How? H o w could he arrange a meeting?

It was a week before he saw her again, in the canteen. He sat at her table and at that moment saw Ampleforth, the dreamy man w i t h hairy ears who re-wrote poems. Ampleforth was walking around with his lunch, looking for a place to sit down. He would certainly sit with Winston if he saw him. Winston had about a minute to arrange something with the girl. He started to eat the watery soup they had been given for lunch.

‘What time do you leave work?’ he said to the girl.

‘Eighteen-thirty’

‘Where can we meet?’

‘Victory Square, near the picture of Big Brother.’

‘It’s full of telescreens.’

‘It doesn’t matter if there’s a crowd. But don’t come near me until you see me among a lot of people. And don’t look at me.

Just follow me.’

‘What time?’

‘Nineteen hours.’

‘All right.’

Ampleforth did not see Winston and sat down at another table. Winston and the girl did not speak again and they did not look at each another. The girl finished her lunch quickly and left, while Winston stayed to smoke a cigarette.

He arrived at Victory Square early. Big Brother’s picture looked up at the skies where he had beaten the Eurasian aeroplanes (or Eastasian aeroplanes — it had been a few years ago) in the Great Air War.

Five minutes after the time they had arranged, Winston saw the girl near Big Brother’s picture, but it was not safe to move closer to her yet; there were not enough people around. But suddenly some Eurasian prisoners were brought out and everyone started running across the park. Winston ran too, next to the girl, lost in the crowd.

‘Can you hear me?’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you working this Sunday afternoon?’

‘No.’

‘Then listen carefully. Go …’

Like a general in the army she told him exactly where to go. A half-hour railway journey; turn left outside the station; two kilometres along the road; a gate; a path across a field. She seemed to have a map inside her head.

‘Can you remember all that?’ she said, finally.

‘Yes. What time?’

‘About fifteen hours. You may have to wait. I ‘ l l get there by another way.’

She moved away from him. But at the last moment, while the crowd was still around them, her hand touched his — though they did not dare look at each other.

Winston opened the gate and walked along the path across the field. The air was soft and the birds sang.

You were not safer in the country than in London. There were no telescreens of course, but there were microphones and the Thought Police often waited at railway stations. But the girl was clearly experienced, “which made him feel braver.

He had no watch but it could not be fifteen hours yet, so he started to pick flowers. A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. He looked up. It was the girl, shaking her head as a warning to stay silent. She walked ahead of him and it was clear to Winston that she had been this way before. He followed, carrying his flowers, feeling that he was not good enough for her.

They were in an open space of grass between tall trees when the girl stopped and turned. ‘Here we are,’ she said. He stood quite close to her but did not dare move nearer. ‘I didn’t want to say anything on the path because there might be microphones there. But we’re all right here.’

He still was not brave enough to go near her. ‘We’re all right here?’ he repeated stupidly.

‘Yes, look at the trees.’ They were small and thin. ‘There’s nothing big enough to hide a microphone in. And I’ve been here before.’

He had managed to move closer to her now. She stood in front of him with a smile on her face. His flowers had fallen to the ground. He took her hand.

‘Until now I didn’t even know what colour your eyes were,’

he said. They were brown, light brown. A n d now you’ve seen what I ‘ m really like, can you even look at me?’

‘Yes, easily.’

’ I ‘ m thirty-nine years old. I’ve got a wife that I can’t get rid of.

I’ve got a bad knee. I’ve got five false teeth.’

‘I don’t care,’ said the girl.

The next moment she was in his arms on the grass. But the truth was that although he felt proud, he also felt disbelief. He had no physical desire; it was too soon. Her beauty frightened him. Perhaps he was just used to living without women . . . The girl sat up and pulled a flower out of her hair. ‘Don’t worry, dear. There’s no hurry. Isn’t this a wonderful place? I found it when I got lost once on a walk in the country with the Young People’s League. If anyone was coming, you could hear them a hundred metres away.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked Winston.

‘Julia. I know yours. It’s Winston — Winston Smith. Tell me, dear, what did you think of me before I gave you the note?’

He did not even think of lying to her. It was like an offer of love to tell her the truth. ‘I hated the sight of you,’ he said. ‘ I f you really want to know, I thought you were in the Thought Police.’

The girl laughed, clearly pleased that she had hidden her true feelings so well. She pulled out some chocolate from the pocket of her overalls, broke it in half and gave one of the pieces to Winston. It was very good chocolate.

‘Where did you get it?’ he asked.

‘Oh, there are places,’ she said. ‘It’s easier if you seem to be a good Party member like me. I ‘ m good at games. I was a Group Leader in the Spies. I work three evenings a week for the Young People’s League. I spend hours and hours putting up posters all over London. I do anything they want and I always look happy about it. It’s the only way to be safe.’

The taste of the excellent chocolate was still in Winston’s mouth. ‘You are very young,’ he said. ‘You’re ten or fifteen years younger than I am. What did you find attractive in a man like me?’

‘It was something in your face. I thought I’d take a chance. I ‘ m good at finding people who don’t belong. When I first saw you I knew you were against them!

When Julia said them she meant the Party, especially the Inner Party. She spoke about them with real hate, using bad words.

Winston did not dislike that. It was part of her personal war against the Party.

He kissed her softly and took her hands in his. ‘Have you done this before?’

’ O f course. Hundreds of times — well, a lot of times.’

’ W i t h Party members?’

‘Yes.’

’ W i t h members of the Inner Party?’

‘Not with those pigs, no. But there are plenty that would if they got the chance. They’re not as pure as they pretend to be.’

His heart raced. He hoped that the Party was weakened by a lie. ‘Listen. The more men you’ve had, the more I love you. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes, perfectly.’

‘You like doing this? I don’t mean just me. I mean the thing itself?’

‘I love it.’

That was what he wanted to hear. The need for sex, not the love of one person, would finish the Party. He pressed her down on the grass. This time there was no difficulty.

Afterwards they fell asleep and slept for about half an hour.

Their love, their sex together, had beaten the Party. It was a political act.

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