Louse (14 page)

When I roll Poppy onto his back, the “Requiem” comes to a close and the doors to his chambers open. The dull sound of a breeze enters from the corridors leading from the bathrooms and from the western wing; it whispers over the discarded newspapers, legal pads, and Kleenex. The wind eventually subsides, but in its place I hear the sound of small, scurrying legs. I turn around to find a large black beetle crawling up and over the floor's rough terrain. I see it, but don't believe I see it. I marvel at it as it stupidly shuffles away from me. It heads in the direction of the linoleum border where a fleet of planes I have yet to encase rest upside down on their wings. I slowly move away from the bed and follow the beetle's big gleaming shell as it drags its thick bottom over the layers of crumpled paper. It scurries until it reaches one of the planes, under which it pushes its way into hiding.

I crouch down to lift the plane when I notice, written on the wings, an inscription: “Take me when I fly out into the valley this morning and forgive me for my sins. I regret…” The words trail inside a neatly creased fold that forms the plane's fuselage.

I look over to Poppy, whose eyes are open but whose mind is so obviously somewhere deep within himself. Under the streaks of red light emanating from the surveillance cameras his body looks as though it is hovering over the bed. In fact, everything in the room feels like it has been elevated above me. Even the inanimate legs of the nightstands and the dark bed frame appear to stand fifteen feet high. I have an uncanny sensation of each object continually rising higher with every one of Poppy's shallow breaths, and that this beetle and I are the only things fixed to the floor.

When I finally pick up the plane, the beetle doesn't move; it remains still, its feelers quivering. I can't help wonder what one thinks when faced with his own inevitable destruction. How does one prepare for premature conclusions? Just as I think this, the beetle dashes off in the direction of another plane. Almost instinctively, as a matter of course, a consequence of reflex, I stand up, lift my shoe, and in one swift motion crush the bug under my heel. I can hear the large shell crack and feel the soft insides spread over the surface of the slick linoleum. When I lift my leg, I can feel the beetle's sticky remains cling to me.

I delicately place Poppy's plane away from the mess and remove Mortimer Blank's letter from the inside pocket of my jacket. Using the envelope, I scrape what's left of the beetle from the floor and my shoe and walk down the corridor to Bathroom Number Three. I pass Jane's shadowed face and go directly to the incinerator at the back of the supply closet. I throw the crushed beetle and Mr. Blank's letter down into the dark heat, and with it, my mask and latex gloves.

Once I secure the incinerator door, I walk back into the bathroom. As I reach the threshold leading to the corridor, I hear,
coming from Poppy's quarters, a door slam shut. I don't move. My heart momentarily stops beating. All sound seems to filter somewhere else. There is only silence, and more silence, and then another door slams shut and another door opens. My heart now begins to pound. I continue walking into and down the corridor. When I enter Poppy's room, I encounter a large, robust man entering from Corridor Number One. He is shrouded by a warm, lavender light that outlines a thick head and shoulders. He is tall and paunchy in the chest and the stomach. When his face becomes lit I can see his nose, which is thin, and his jaw, which is slightly hidden by several rolls of flesh.

“How do you do?” he asks from across the room.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“No,” he says as he walks over to Poppy's bed. “You've already helped a good deal.”

Because of the way he authoritatively disregards me, I don't feel as though I should question what he is doing, but I must make my motive appear clear.

“Do you have a pass?” I ask.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. His hair is sandy brown. Some of it falls boyishly into his eyes as he kneels next to Poppy's bed and begins rummaging through a stack of legal pads piled on the floor. He removes one from the bottom of the pile.

“A name? How about a name?” I ask.

“No name. No pass,” he says as he flips through the pad and removes a sheet. He folds it up and places it in the pocket of his jacket.

“I'm afraid I can't accept this,” I say. “I require a pass and some form of identification.”

“Yes, I know. But this time, you'll ignore protocol, Mr. Louse.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that, sir.”

“Do you know who I am, Herman?”

“I'm not sure,” I say, wondering if it isn't Mortimer Blank, if for no other reason than that he knows who I am and I don't know him. But I don't want to say this name. All I can wonder is if Mr. Sherwood and the rest of Intelligence see what he is doing, if Mr. Sherwood has seen what I have done. The red streaks of the camera surveillance lights continue to pulse. If they are watching, if they have been watching, what would they expect me to do? If they aren't watching why doesn't he tell me what he wants of me? But they can't be watching, because if they were watching I would expect they would have sent someone to take care of him, to take care of me. Unless they are watching and they don't dare touch him.

“He's very clammy,” the man says as he takes his hand off Poppy's head.

“I'm afraid I can't allow this,” I insist, feeling the need to protect Poppy. He wouldn't approve of anyone touching him without gloves.

“It's all right, Mr. Louse,” he says, now taking hold of Poppy's wrist and feeling for his pulse. “He'll never know.”

“Please, sir,” I say. “If you don't show me your pass I will be forced to call Security.”

“Bear with me just a moment longer,” he says, concentrating on his watch.

“I really must insist,” I say nervously.

He lets go of Poppy's arm, gently places it on the bed, and walks over to me.

“Don't worry yourself, Mr. Louse,” the man says abruptly. “Come. Come have a closer look.” He grabs me by the hand. “Come and feel him. Feel what he is.”

As a reflex, I struggle with him a little. But he is much stronger than I. He pulls me by the arm over to Poppy's bedside and places my hand on his head.

“There, Mr. Louse,” he whispers in my ear. “Feel what he is.”

I don't say anything. I don't understand what I am supposed to feel. I don't understand why Poppy, with all his aspirations for the future, would decide this for himself. I allow my body to go limp in this man's hands and feel, with my bare palm, the coldness of Poppy's damp skin.

“That's all,” the man says. “That's all he is.” His grip loosens and his fat lips stretch across his face into a half smile. “When I leave,” he says, “do what is most appropriate, Mr. Louse. Is that clear?”

Again I don't say anything.

“I will be in touch soon enough.”

With that, he briskly walks away, out of Poppy's chambers, into the western wing. I follow him to the door and watch him pass the kitchen and disappear out of the secured zone. I then go to Poppy's intercom with the direct line to Mr. Sherwood, feeling relieved that I am able to act as I should and not feel conflicted by having to choose one side over the other. All the sounds of Poppy's chambers begin to silence as I think of what I am going to tell Mr. Sherwood. Do I tell him that I suspect this man to be Mr. Blank? Does he already know that Blank has made contact with me and I didn't report it? If he knows this why hasn't he acted? If he knows it and he hasn't acted, does he expect me to tell him?

When I reach for the intercom, I try not to hesitate before I press the button.

“Sherwood, here.”

“Mr. Sherwood, I'm sorry to disturb you. This is Herman Q. Louse. A man I have never seen before just visited Poppy's chambers. He didn't have a pass, nor was he willing to reveal his identity.”

“Very good, Mr. Louse.”

“Shall I file a report?”

“That won't be necessary.”

“Shall I take any measure whatsoever, sir?”

“Please report to my office immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

I release the button of the intercom and can feel myself trembling inside. I step out into the western wing and let out a small laugh through my nose that sounds like weeping.

The thirty-second floor is comprised of small, self-contained glass offices with glass tables, on top of which are monitors and computers. Men and women sit at the small tables and observe all of G.'s activity. There are hundreds of such offices laid out on a square grid. The men and women wear blinders so that nothing in their peripheral vision will distract them from their work. I have never had a conversation with members of Intelligence and Internal Affairs, other than Mr. Bender. They are, for all intents and purposes, sworn to silence. They can talk among themselves, but with no one from outside their department.

When I step out of the elevator, I notice, inside the glass cubicle beside me, an observer watching a small image of me on a monitor. She doesn't turn to look at me; she begins typing at a furious speed.

Before me, a series of colored lines branch out to various departments: Collections, Corrections, Cancellations, Codes, Inspections and Investigations, and Detentions. I follow a red line to Mr. Sherwood's office—Intelligence. It is a straight line to the opposite end of the building. I pass dozens of glass walls, observing the
observers do their jobs. When I reach the very end, I approach a waiting room where a dark-haired woman with alabaster skin rigidly sits upright in her seat; her hands fold over each other and rest on a green blotter. The blotter covers a rosewood desk that sits off to the left of a padded leather door. The woman looks directly at my waistline and doesn't make any effort to look up.

“Herman Q. Louse to see Mr. Sherwood,” I say, trying to capture her attention, trying not to show my feelings, which I'm finding more and more difficult as time passes.

She doesn't respond.

Not knowing what to do, I wait.

The woman occasionally blinks her eyes. She exchanges one hand for the other on her blotter.

After several uncomfortable moments, the leather door opens and Mr. Bender, back-lit by a very bright light, steps out into the waiting room.

“If you'll follow me, Mr. Louse,” he says, turning on his heel back into Mr. Sherwood's office.

I follow the crooked shadow of his figure through the door and find that the bright light comes from somewhere outside. The window's scrim is not down. When I look out, I can see the rim of a spotlight hovering atop a nearby rock formation. If I look askance, away from the brightness, I can see out onto a vast stretch of desert littered with dark brush whose cone-shaped shadows point down into a valley from the top of a long sloping hill. Beyond the hill, plumes of yellow dust rise into the atmosphere almost as high as the thirty-second floor. I can also see trucks crawling along a straight and narrow road; their metal reflects like distant stars. The trucks drive down into the valley, to a housing project. The roofs of the
houses connect to each other and extend out to a tall wall, which lies at the base of the hill.

Mr. Bender walks through a side door, which he closes behind him. Just then, I notice Mr. Godmeyer standing in the corner. As I am about to step forward to look out the window, he presses a button that lowers the scrim.

As the screen descends, the room turns gray. When my eyes adjust to the new light, I can see before me a large rosewood desk six times the size of the secretary's. A letter-size folder rests on top of a large green blotter. Mr. Godmeyer opens the folder as Mr. Sherwood and Mr. Bender enter through the side door.

Mr. Sherwood approaches me, takes hold of my hand with a thick palm, and pumps several times.

“Mr. Louse, do come in,” he says pointing me to a chair in front of his desk. “It's nice to see you in the flesh. Mr. Bender has told me nothing but wonderful things.” He smiles and lets go of me. He walks behind his desk and sits in a large leather chair. He leans back, creaking into comfort. Mr. Bender stands behind Mr. Sherwood's chair, just off to the side. Mr. Godmeyer returns to his corner.

I sit in the chair Mr. Sherwood has designated for me and can't help but be suspicious of the positive tone of his greeting. I am also a little put off by Mr. Sherwood's size. He is almost the size of Mr. Godmeyer. He is barrel-chested and has a bald dome head. The oversized cuffs of his jacket and pants sway like bells over his thick wrists and ankles. His voice is throaty and contains the sound of him shifting his weight. He has very acute eyes, dark and piercing, but hidden behind full cheeks. His skin is freckled. His manner is stately.

I cautiously look over to Mr. Godmeyer and try to imagine what wonderful things Mr. Bender imparted to Mr. Sherwood for
him to be treating me so kindly. Don't they know what I've done? Don't they know what I have been doing?

“So, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Sherwood says, “you must be wondering why I've brought you in tonight?”

“The intruder,” I say plainly.

“Oh, yes, right,” he says. He looks to Mr. Bender who looks to Mr. Godmeyer. “We'll get to that shortly, Mr. Louse.”

“Thank you, sir,” I say, relieved that we are moving on to something else.

“No need to thank me, Mr. Louse,” he says cordially. Mr. Sherwood begins playing with the edge of the folder as he looks me up and down a little more carefully. His face suggests that he neither approves nor disapproves of what's before him. I try to sit still and not move and allow him to study me.

“Tell me, Mr. Louse,” Mr. Sherwood says. He looks down to the folder and flips a few pages. “When Mr. Slodsky approached you earlier—just before his arrest—what exactly did he impart to you?”