Authors: Alain Robbe-Grillet
The perfectly adjusted machinery cannot hold the slightest
surprise in store. It is merely a matter of following the text,
reciting phrase after phrase, and the words will be fulfilled and
Lazarus will rise from his tomb, wrapped in his shroud
He who advances like this, in secrecy, to carry out the order, knows neither fear nor doubt. He no longer feels the weight of his own body. His footsteps are as silent as a priest
’
s; they glide over the rugs and tiles, as regular, as impersonal, as definitive.
A straight line is the shortest distance between two points.
…
footsteps so light they leave no trace on the surface of the sea. The stairs in this house have twenty-one steps, the shortest distance between two points
…
the surface of the sea
…
Suddenly the limpid water grows cloudy. In this setting determined by law, without an inch of land to the right or left, without a second
’
s hesitation, without resting, without looking back, the actor suddenly stops, in the middle of a phrase
…
He knows it by heart, this role he plays every evening; but today he refuses to go any farther. Around him the other characters freeze, arm raised or leg half bent. The measure begun by
the musicians goes on and on He would have to do something
now, speak any words at all, words that would not belong to the libretto.
…
But, as every evening, the phrase begun concludes in the prescribed form, the arm falls back, the leg completes its stride. In the pit, the orchestra is still playing with the same vigor.
The stairs consist of twenty-one w
ooden steps, then, at the
very bottom, a white stone step, noticeably wider than the rest and whose rounded outer edge bears a brass column with complicated decorations and, as a finial, a jesters head wearing a cap with three bells. Higher up, the heavy, varnished banister is supported by turned wooden rails flaring slightly toward the base. A strip of gray carpet, with two garnet stripes at the edges, covers the stairs and extends, across the hall, to the front door.
The color of this carpet has been omitted in Bona
’
s description, as well as the detail of the brass finial.
Another man, in this same place, weighing each step, would come…
Above the sixteenth step, a small painting is hanging on the wall, at eye level. It is a romantic landscape representing a stormy night: a flash of lightning illuminates the ruins of a tower; at its foot two men are lying, asleep despite the thunder or else struck by lightning? Perhaps fallen from the top of the tower. The frame is made of carved and gilded wood; both painting and frame seem to be of rather ancient date. Bona has not mentioned this painting.
The landing. Door to the right. The study. It is just as Bona has described it, even more cramped maybe and more crowded: books, books everywhere, those lining the walls almost all bound in green leather, others, paper-backed, piled carefully on the mantel, on a stand, and even on the floor; still others lying casually on the end of the desk and on two leather armchairs. The desk, of dark oak, long and monumental, virtually fills the rest of the room. It is completely covered with files and papers; the big desk lamp, set in the middle, is out. A single bulb is turned on in the ceiling fixture.
Instead of walking straight across the small free area of green carpet, between the door
and the desk (the floor creaks
there), Garinati passes behind the armchair, squeezes between the stand and a pile of books and reaches the desk from the other side.
“
Standing behind the desk and holding the back of the desk chair in front of you with both hands, you will take note of the position of all the objects and
of the door. You have time: Du
pont doesn
’
t come back up before seven-thirty. When you are perfectly sure of everything, you
’
ll go and turn out the ceiling light. The switch is against the door jamb; you have to push it toward the wall, if you push it in the other direction two more bulbs go on. Then you
’
ll come back, still by the same way, and stand behind your chair in exactly the same position as before; you
’
ll wait, the loaded revolver in your right hand, your eyes fixed on the doorway. When Dupont opens it, he will be silhouetted clearly in the opening against the lighted hallway; invisible in the darkness, you
’
ll take aim easily, resting your left hand on the back of the chair. You
’
ll fire three times at his heart, and you
’
ll leave, without excessive haste; the old woman will have heard nothing. If you meet her in the hall, don
’
t let her get a good look at your face; push her aside, but not roughly. There will be no one else in the house.
”
The only distance between two points.
A kind of cube, but slightly misshapen, a shiny block of gray lava, with its faces polished as though by wear, the edges softened, compact, apparently hard, heavy as gold, looking about as big around as a fist; a paperweight? It is the only trinket in the room.
The titles of the books:
Labor and Organization, The Phenomenology of the Crisis {1929), Contribution to the Study of Economic Cycles,
and the rest in keeping. Not interesting.
Light switch against the door jamb, porcelain and chromium-plated metal, three positions.
He had been writing, four words at the top of a sheet of blank paper:
“
which can not prevent
…
”
It was just then that he
went downstairs to eat; he must not have found the word that came next.
Footsteps on the landing. The light! Too late to reach it now. The door opening and Dupont
’
s stupid stare
…
Garinati has fired, only one shot, trusting to instinct, at a fragment of an escaping body.
The tiniest flaw
…
Maybe. The sailor has just finished cranking the winch; the drawbridge is back in place.
Leaning over the handrail, Garinati has not moved. He watches the oily water ripple at his feet in a recess of the quay; a few pieces of flotsam have accumulated here: a piece of tar-stained wood, two old corks, a piece of orange peel, and smaller fragments, half decomposed, difficult to identify.
You don
’
t die so fast from a flesh wound in the arm. Come off it! The manager shrugs his massive shoulders in a gesture of denial tempered with indifference: they can write whatever they want, but they won
’
t make him believe that, with their stories made up on purpose to fool people.
“
Tuesday, October 27.—A daring burglar made his way at
nightfall yesterday into the residence of M. Daniel Dupont,
number 2 Rue des Arpenteurs. Caught red-handed by the
owner, the criminal, as he escaped, fired his revolver several
times at M. Dupont…”
The old woman arrived all out of breath. It was just before eight o
’
clock; the
café
was empty. No, the drunk was still here, half asleep in his corner; there wa
s no one left for him to pester
with his riddles: the others had finally all gone home to eat. The old woman asked if she could use the telephone. Of course she could; the manager pointed to where it was, on the wall. She was holding a sheet of paper which she looked at to dial her number while she went on talking: there was no way of calling from her house, something wrong with the phone since Saturday.
“
Home
”
was the little house at the corner, with a hedge around it. It was hard to say just whom she was speaking to. Probably to him, since the drunk obviously took no interest in the matter, but she seemed to be trying to reach a wider audience beyond, like a crowd in a public square; or else trying to affect something deeper in him than the sense of hearing. Since Saturday, and no one had come to fix it yet.
“
Hello! Doctor Juard, please?
”
She was shouting even louder than when she was telling her misfortunes.
“
The doctor has to come right away. Someone
’
s hurt. Right away, you hear? Someone
’
s hurt! Hello! You hear?
…
”
In any case, she herself did not seem to be hearing very well. Finally she handed him the extra earphone and he had to report what the clinic was saying to her. Probably deaf. She followed the words on his lips when he spoke.
“
Monsieur Daniel Dupont, two Rue des Arpenteurs. The doctor knows.
”
Her eyes questioned him.
“
All right. He
’
s coming.
”
She went on talking as fast as ever while she paid for the call. She did not seem hysterical, only a little overexcited. When he left the table Monsieur Dupont had found a criminal in his study—some people have their nerve—in his study which he had just left; where the light had even been left on. What did he want, anyway? To steal books? Her employer had had just time enough to dash into the ne
xt room where his revolver was;
his arm had only been grazed by a bullet. But when he had
come back into the hallway, the criminal had already escaped.
And she had heard nothing, seen nothing, that was the worst!
How had he even got in? Some people have their nerve.
“
A
daring burglar made his way
…
”
The phone had not been
working since Saturday. And she had taken the trouble to go to
the office, so someone would come to take care of it; of course
no one had come. Sunday, all right, that was a holiday—and
still, there should have been some kind of emergency repair
service for such cases. Besides, if the repair service was any
good, someone would have come right away. As a matter of fact
Monsieur Dupont had waited all Saturday afternoon for an
important call; and he did not even know if he could receive
outside calls, since the phone had not rung since Friday
…
***
A plan of general reform of the telephone and telegraph system. Article one: a permanent repair service for emergency cases. No. Sole Article: Monsieur Dupont
’
s telephone will be kept perpetually in perfect working order. Or more simply: everything will always work normally. And Saturday morning will stay quietly in its place, separated from the following Monday evening by sixty hours of sixty minutes each.
The old woman would have gone back at least as far as September if the drunk had not interrupted, awakened by her exclamations. He had been staring hard at her for a few minutes and took advantage of a moment
’
s silence to say:
“
Say, grandma, do you know what
’
s the worst thing for a telephone lineman?
”
She turned toward him.
“
Listen, boy, there
’
s nothing for you to brag about.
”
“
No, grandma, that
’
s not it, I
’
m not bragging, not me! I
’
m asking if you know what
’
s
the worst thing for a telephone
lineman?
”
He expressed himself formally, but with some difficulty.
“
What
’
s he saying?
”
The manager tapped his forehead in explanation.
“
Oh! That
’
s it. These are strange times we
’
re living in, all the same. I
’
m not surprised things go so badly nowadays, at the telephone offices.
”
Meanwhile Jeannette has lighted the stove and the
café
has filled up with smoke. The manager opens the street door. It
’
s cold outside. The sky is overcast. It looks as though it were going to snow.
He steps out onto the sidewalk and looks toward the parkway. The fence and the hedge of the corner house are in sight. At the canal
’
s edge, at the end of the bridge, a man is leaning on the railing, with his back to the street. What is he waiting for? A whale to pass? All that can be seen of him is a long shabby coat; like the one the man was wearing this morning. Maybe he
’
s waiting there for the other man to come back!
What does this story about the burglary mean? Was there a more serious wound the old woman did not know about? Or didn
’
t she want to say so? A burglar! It doesn
’
t make sense. Besides, what difference can it make to him anyway?
The manager picks up his paper again:
“
…
The victim, critically wounded and taken at once to a nearby clinic, died there without regaining consciousness. The police are investigating the identity of the murderer whose traces, up to now, have not been found.
“
Daniel Dupont,
croix de guerre, chevalier du M
é
rite,
was fifty-two years old. Formerly a professor at the School of Law, he was also the author of many works on political economy known for their original views, notably concerning the problem of the organization of production.
”
Died without regaining consciousness. He hadn
’
t even lost consciousness. Another shrug. Flesh wound in the arm. Come off it! You don
’
t die so fast.