Memoirs Found In a Bathtub (11 page)

“But you took nothing, sir! You took nothing!” he pestered me all the way back to the catalog room. To get rid of him, I asked for the book on angels and a handbook of astronomy. I signed for them illegibly and left, a thick manuscript under my arm—the book on angels, as it turned out, had never been published. I took a deep breath of fresh air out in the corridor. What a relief! But my clothes still carried the smell of rotting leather, bookbinder’s glue and parchment. I felt like I’d just stepped out of a slaughterhouse.

I had hardly left the Archives when a thought hit me. I returned and compared the door number with the one scribbled on my card: sure enough, I had made a mistake, I had taken the second digit for an eight instead of a three. So my real destination was 3383.

The fact that I had made a mistake and misread a number was a tremendous comfort to me. Until now, everything had seemed accidental but in reality had gone according to some plan. But this visit to the Archives, that was a genuine accident. And the Building was responsible for it: the room number had been written in too carelessly. Human error, then, still operated here; mystery and freedom were still in the realm of possibility.

Then too, the examining magistrate was as much to blame as I, the defendant—we would have a good laugh together and the matter would be dismissed. I headed for 3383 confidently.

Judging from the great number of phones on every desk, 3383 was not just another office. I went straight to the head official’s door—but found no knob to turn. The receptionist asked if she could be of any help. My explanation grew involved and complicated because I couldn’t tell her the truth.

“But you have no appointment,” she repeated over and over again. I demanded an appointment. But that was out of the question, she said; I would have to submit my petition in triplicate through the proper channels, then get the necessary signatures. But my Mission was Special, Top Secret. I tried to explain without raising my voice; it could only be discussed in absolute privacy. But she was busy with the phones—answering with a word or two here, pressing a button or two there, putting some people on hold, cutting off others—and hardly seemed to be aware of my existence.

After an hour of this I swallowed my pride and began to plead with her. But pleading didn’t have the least effect, so I showed her the contents of my folder, the blueprint of the Building, the outline for Operation Shovel. I might have been showing her old newspapers for all the response this produced. She was the perfect secretary; nothing existed beyond the narrow limits of her routine. Driven to desperate measures, I let out a stream of terrible confessions—I told her about the open safe, about how I had unwittingly caused the suicide of the little old man, and as none of this made the least impression on her, I began to invent things, I confessed to treason, high treason, anything, if only she would let me in. I demanded the worst—arrest, dishonor—I screamed in her ear. But she waved me away as if I were a fly, and continued to answer the phones with complete indifference. Finally, bathed in sweat, weak and trembling, I collapsed into a chair in the comer. Very well, I would wait. The examining magistrate, the prosecutor, whoever was hiding behind that office door had to come out sooner or later. To pass the time, I leafed through the manuscript I had with me. But I was too confused and wrought-up to concentrate. It said something about the sighting of angels. The astronomy handbook wasn’t any easier to follow—there were long paragraphs on galactic camouflage, nebulae prototypes, relocation of planets, cosmic sabotage… I read the same page ten times without understanding a thing. The hours passed. Surely, this nightmare was worse than any torture I could have ever imagined. Countless times I got up to ask the receptionist questions in a feeble voice. Could she please tell me what time it was? When did her boss go out for lunch? Were there any other investigative offices or prosecution departments nearby? She advised me to try Information. And where was Information, I asked. Room 1593, she said and picked up another phone. So I gathered up my papers, the folder and the book, and walked out, totally crushed. There was nothing left of my earlier confidence, the calm I had achieved that morning, absolutely nothing. My watch informed me that I had spent practically an entire day in that office. Or an entire night, since time was relative in the Building.

There was no room 1593. It would have had to have been on the first level, and the last door at the very end of the corridor was 1591. I tried several different rooms, wherever there was a “Secret,” “Top Secret,” or “Headquarters.” I even looked for the office of my Commander in Chief. Nothing. Perhaps they’d changed the signs or the numbers. The papers were growing limp in my sweaty hands. I hadn’t had a thing to eat since yesterday and was faint with hunger. My face itched, I needed a shave. After considerable wandering around, I took to questioning the elevator men. The one with the artificial leg told me room 1591 wasn’t “on the list.” You had to call first. After another four hours (twice I managed to use a phone in some empty room, but Information was busy), the traffic in the halls increased, everyone was heading for the cafeteria. I joined the crowd. Today it was macaroni and cheese—terrible, but it put off the moment when I would have to set forth again. I thought about Major Erms—if he failed me, I had nothing left. Odd, how my confessions and self-accusations hadn’t been accepted. But I wasn’t surprised. Nothing seemed to surprise me any more. My hands covered with grease and my face in a cold sweat, I returned to my bathroom, folded a towel for a pillow and lay down by the tub. Almost instantly I was seized with a nameless, irrational fear, a fear so powerful that I began to shiver on the tiled floor. It was no use—I got up, aching all over, sat on the rim of the tub and tried to think through what had happened and guess what lay in store. The folder, the book, the manuscript on angels lay at my feet. I tried to think, but couldn’t. I paced the bathroom floor, turned the faucets on and watched the water, turned them off slowly to see exactly at what point the whining in the pipes started, then I made faces at myself in the mirror, I even cried a little, then sat on the rim of the tub again, my head in my hands. Hours passed. Was this all still a test? Could my misreading of the room number have been foreseen, even intentionally arranged? The old librarian had led me to the section on physical torture… Wait a minute, torture—torture—torte! Torte was a kind of cake, wasn’t it? Yes, a kind of cake… Ah, how devious they were! Did they mean to tell me that—that I would be tortured? The torture of waiting. Then there
was
a plan here, a plan to push me to the limit, to test my fiber, my endurance for the Mission, that “highly dangerous” Mission. Then I was still in favor, still singled out? In that case, everything would be all right; I had only to maintain an air of indifference, passivity. Yes, the receptionist had deliberately ignored me, and Information had been inaccessible by design. Comforted by that thought, I washed my face and went out to find Major Erms. Outside the Department of Instructions I saw an unusually large number of janitors polishing the floor. They wore brand-new overalls and didn’t seem to pay too much attention to their work. They were looking around instead. All were squat, solidly built, with broad shoulders; all wore caps a size too small. They could have passed for brothers. Each one nudged the next and muttered something.

Several officers came up in full dress, sabers at their side. They asked to see the janitors’ papers, the janitors asked to see their papers. Somehow I was overlooked. Obviously a security precaution—something was up! I waited around, curious. Also, I was in no particular hurry to see Major Erms. Then, suddenly, a bugle blared, everyone rushed to stand in place, they lined up at attention, the elevator opened, two adjutants in silver braid stood guard.

“The Admiral! The Admiral!” the news went around. The officers and janitors fell into formation and saluted. My heart pounded with excitement; now I would get to see a high-ranking dignitary. From an elevator that had the most elegant interior (the walls were in cut velvet and decorated with maps, portraits and heraldry), a little old man stepped out, his uniform blazing with gold. He was short and gray, had liver spots and limped a little. He surveyed his men and without the least effort (you could see he was a professional) bellowed:

“At ease!”

The Admiral walked up and down the column of men, dissatisfied, suspicious—and stopped in front of me. Then I realized I was the only civilian there. My first impulse was to fall at his feet, confess everything, beg for mercy—but I stood there instead, looking as loyal as I possibly could. He eyed me fiercely, like a warrior, jangled his medals, then barked:

“Civilian?”

“Yes, sir! Civilian, sir!”

“In the Service?”

“Yes, sir! In the Ser—”

“Wife? Children?”

“Beg to report, sir—”

“H’m,” he said with a paternal smile. He mulled something over, frowned, absently fingered the plump wart under his nose. I watched his liver spots and waited.

“An undercover man,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “An undercover man, good. Follow me.”

My heart in my mouth, I stepped out of the column and followed the Admiral, painfully aware of the whispering behind my back. We marched down the corridor, and at each department we passed, officers jumped out and saluted. There was the Department of Promotion and Demotion, the Exhumation and Fumigation Hall, the Debilitation and Rehabilitation Section. The last door was marked “Degrading.” Here the Admiral stopped, and the chief of that department leaped out and snapped to attention.

“H’m?” asked the Admiral in a confidential tone.

“Counterdecoration, sir.”

And he whispered the exact proceedings of the ceremony. All I caught was: “…off … humiliation … without … drummed out … awful…”

“H’m!” said the Admiral. Sternly, he adjusted his medals and stepped across the threshold of the Degrading Department, stopped, turned to me and snapped, “You! Undercover man! Follow me!”

The room was huge, splendid in a funereal way—luxurious black drapes, heavy antique mirrors suspended from the ceiling and increasing the gloom with their cloudy surfaces, and in the comers large pieces of furniture resembling catafalques. In the middle of the room, surrounded by these lifeless spectators of the forthcoming counterdecoration ceremony, five officers stood at attention on a magnificent carpet featuring snakes and Judases; they were in full regalia—aiguillettes and epaulettes, insignia and crests, sabers at their sides. Deathly pale, they stiffened at the Admiral’s entrance—their medals sparkled, their tassels trembled—that was the only sign of life. The Admiral looked them over carefully, then stopped in front of one officer and hurled the word:

“Disgrace!”

He paused, as if something wasn’t quite right, and gave me a sign to switch off the overhead lights. The room was now fairly dark; the mirrors had a ghostly aspect to them. But still the Admiral wasn’t satisfied. He stepped back until the dim light caught the silver in his hair. Then he took a deep breath.

“Disgrace!!” he roared in their faces. “Disgrace!!!” Then he paused, uncertain whether the first “Disgrace” should count or not. Just then, a halo of light played about his medals—a good effect—so he decided to continue. “Stain! On your honor! Blot! On your record! Shame! Traitors! Turncoats!”

Now he was warming up, getting the feel of it. “Never!” he thundered, this time with more dignity. “I will not permit! You dared! From this time on! I’ll break you!!”

That, I thought, would be the end of it. But no, he was only just beginning. He went up to the first officer, stood on his toes and tore at one of the jeweled medals that decorated the officer’s chest. It came off like a ripe pear. Now there was no turning back. He began ripping everything off, ripping wildly, with complete abandon, like someone tearing the possessions off a corpse on a battlefield—aiguillettes, crests, tassels, whatever he could reach and grab. Then to the second officer, like a beast of prey, ripping and tearing—the seams came apart easily. They must have tailors to do that specially, I thought. Honors, decorations, medals rained and flashed on the carpet. The Admiral ground them under his heel. The five officers stood passively under this onslaught, their pale faces reflected and multiplied in the dim mirrors—as were their tom insignia and shredded uniforms. The old man walked up and down this avenue of shame, then leaned against me for a moment to catch his breath, then returned—to slap the men in the face. Then, their swords: he pulled them from their scabbards, one by one, and handed them to me to break across my knee. The fact that I was a civilian made the humiliation that much greater, of course. The ceremony over, we left the darkened Degrading Department, passed through Decoration Hall, also full of suspended mirrors, and came to a highly ornate door. An aide opened it for us.

The Admiral and I were alone in an enormous office. There was a desk of gigantic proportions, and behind that, a deep armchair. On the walls were imposing portraits of the Admiral, wise and full of authority. In a comer stood a statue of the Admiral on horseback. The live Admiral took off his hat, loosened his collar and gave a sigh of relief. He even loosened his belt a notch and winked. Clearly, I was being taken into his confidence. Should I answer with a smile? No, he might think that impudent. The old man sank into his armchair and breathed heavily. Why didn’t he take off all those medals? They must have been a tremendous weight to carry around. He seemed to age right before my eyes.

“An undercover man,” he muttered to himself, “an undercover man.” Apparently this amused him. Or was he, for all his great power and authority, turning a little senile? Then again, compelled as he was to live in uniform all his life, perhaps he nurtured some secret fondness for civilian things. They would be forbidden fruit for him.

“An undercover man. An undercover man?…”

He grunted affirmatively, clicked his tongue, cracked his knuckles—all this in the most casual way—but there was a purpose behind it, I knew. He looked me over and coughed politely. What, didn’t he trust me?