The Investigation

by Philippe Claudel

  That had all taken place in fewer than thirty seconds, and the Investigator had been unable to react or say a word. The man’s handgun didn’t look like a toy, and besides, whether it was or not, the Investigator felt too weak to offer any sort of resistance. Before leaving the room, the armed man gazed at the big photograph of the old fellow, and then, appearing to speak more to the portrait than to the Investigator, he said very loudly, “The police have been informed and will be here soon! You will have to answer for what you’ve done!”

  At that, he shoved the Investigator into the hall and rushed out after him, quickly closing the door behind them.

  “Good God …!” The man took several deep breaths, laughed a little nervously, looked at the Investigator, and used a knife to cut off his handcuffs. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I had to play the game. That place must be loaded with microphones—and cameras, too, no doubt!”

  The Investigator no longer had any idea what was going on. “I was sure you were going to give me away,” the other said.

  “Then you are the one who … you’re the Guide?”

  Suddenly the man appeared to be extremely annoyed. “Certainly not. After a certain hour, I become the Watchman … You see, my salary is so abysmally low … I hacked into the computer system and worked out a way to give myself both positions, but if anyone in the Central Directorate finds out, I’m sunk.… You won’t say anything, will you? As I think you can tell, my situation is such that I’ll stop at nothing. A desperate man has very little to lose.”

  As he said that, he shook his weapon in front of the Investigator’s eyes, and he, with a wordless look, indicated that he’d keep the secret.

  “I know of no other solution to my plight. It’s humiliating, but what can you do? When you don’t have what it takes to play a leading role, you have to take several small walk-on parts in order to survive. No, if you don’t mind, please keep your hard hat on!”

  The Investigator readjusted his headgear, not even trying anymore to understand why one person insisted that he wear it and another required him to take it off at once.

  “But to hell with that, what about you? Why are you still in this office at this hour?”

  Without going into details, the Investigator felt obliged to summarize what the Manager had said, but he kept quiet about the Manager’s attempt to hurdle his desk and the pathetic display that had followed, with the Manager on his knees, weeping at the Investigator’s feet. Then he described the Manager’s abrupt departure, attributed by the Investigator to courtesy: The Manager, he explained, must have gone off to see about the Investigator’s meal, which had been ordered but never received.

  “Come on, what are you talking about? For the past fourteen months, the Enterprise’s restaurant has been closed for renovations! As the Manager knows very well. It’s caused a lot of discontent among the personnel—there’s even the threat of a strike! How could he have made you such a promise? Are you certain you understood him correctly?”

  The Investigator was no longer sure of anything. Not even his name. He shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignation.

  “In any case,” the other went on, “the Manager left the Enterprise quite a while ago. I personally saw him exit the tower in the late afternoon. Now, come on, you can’t stay here. If someone finds you, that will necessarily mean trouble for me.”

  The Watchman, formerly the Guide, put his weapon back in its holster, gave the Investigator’s shoulder a light tap, and signaled to him to follow. They went down the same winding stairway they’d gone up together several hours earlier. The first time, the Investigator had felt a pleasant giddiness as he climbed the stairs; on the way down, he was seized by an overwhelming feeling of nausea, which made the steel-and-aluminum structures of the tower look as soft as marshmallows. Sharp angles bent into curves, straight lines turned into moving coils, the stairs themselves became shaky, rubbery, incomparably treacherous, like a supple, mobile carpet of moss. The farther down he went, the more the world came apart, a little as though someone were dismantling a stage set that was no longer needed, and he understood that if he didn’t quicken his pace, he’d no doubt risk being absorbed by that shifting, yielding, unstable mass, as surely as dirty water disappears into a gutter.

  XXII

  A FORCEFUL SLAP BROUGHT HIM BACK to consciousness.

  “Pardon me, but I wasn’t sure what to do. You literally collapsed against me at the bottom of the stairs. I had to hold you up and drag you out, and as soon as we got through the door, you dropped like a ripe fruit! Do you feel any better?”

  The Watchman was standing over the Investigator, who lay curled up on the ground. There was no sympathy in the Watchman’s worried face, and nothing friendly in his question. The Investigator made a vague hand gesture to show him there was no cause for alarm.

  “You’re not carrying some virus, by any chance, are you?” asked the Watchman. “Because what the Enterprise really doesn’t need at this moment is an epidemic!”

  “Nothing to fear,” the Investigator murmured weakly. “It’s just that … I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning.…”

  The Watchman seemed surprised: “Since yesterday morning, you say?” He thought for a moment. “That’s only two days. You mustn’t have a very solid constitution if a little two-day fast can put you in this state. Either that, or you don’t have enough willpower. Six months ago, the Deputy Head of the Export Department went on a hunger strike. He said no one had the right to put him in a pre-retirement program. Guess how many days he held out?”

  The Investigator shook his head to indicate that he had no idea.

  “No, no, say a number!”

  “Fifteen days …?”

  “Forty-two! He held out for forty-two days. Do you realize how long that is? Forty-two days! Management didn’t want to give in. And they were right! They were right not to give in!”

  He’d screamed the last sentence, looking all around as he did so. Then he fell silent, calmed down, and turned his eyes again to the Investigator, who was still on the ground. He began to feel the beneficial effects of fresh air.

  “How did it end?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The hunger strike you were talking about.”

  “Ah, right,” said the Watchman, as if setting foot on a shore abandoned long ago. “The DHED died. Simply died. The organism has its limits. Forty-two days is a lot of days. Too many days. Some people never know when to stop. Result: no pre-retirement, plus no retirement at all. Nothing. So that’s one less grumbler, and his position comes free and makes somebody happy.”

  “I never heard about that case,” groaned the Investigator. “At least, I don’t think so, it wasn’t mentioned in the documents that—”

  The Watchman violently interrupted him. “And why should you be informed that the Deputy Head of the Export Department died while on a hunger strike? Why? Aren’t you here to investigate the suicides? And only the suicides?”

  “So I am,” the Investigator said thoughtfully. “But perhaps, if you consider it, the course of action taken by the hunger striker might seem like a form of suicide.…”

  The Watchman planted his legs a little wider apart, pushed his cap back on his head, folded his arms, and was quiet for several seconds. He appeared to be pondering something. Above him, the sky was as black as his uniform, so black that only his wide-open, furious eyes emerged from the darkness, or that was how it seemed to the Investigator. In the end, the Watchman unfolded his arms and, with a threatening look, pointed his right index finger down at the Investigator. “Tell me something,” he said. “According to what you just said, you haven’t eaten for two days. Doesn’t that mean—if I follow your reasoning—doesn’t that mean you’re trying to commit suicide?”

  The ground was covered by a not very thick layer of delicate, perfectly pure snow. The Investigator had just noticed it. Blackness covered the sky, and this white carpet was on the ground, and he was sitting on it. Wind
buffeted his long white coat, which he was still wearing, carefully buttoned up, and which appeared to be keeping him pleasantly warm. The hard hat protected his balding head. He was freezing, certainly, and yet he wasn’t cold, not cold at all. He even had the impression that he was languishing in palpable, unctuous heat. He could have fallen asleep there, in front of the entrance, yes, he could have slept there for hours and escaped from his situation, which made no sense.

  The Watchman waited, his left fist against his hip, his right hand on the butt of his revolver.

  “I’m hungry,” the Investigator finally said. “I would eat anything, whatever I could get. I won’t make a fuss, I swear to you.…”

  The Watchman immediately relaxed, blew his breath out hard, took his hand off his weapon, and wiped his forehead. “Good God, you scared me! That was close! Yes, you just saved your life! I was on the point of deciding that you were a mole!”

  “A mole?”

  “Yes, I thought you’d been turned, if you prefer. It’s a classic expression in espionage.”

  “But I’m not a spy, I’m the In—”

  “I know perfectly well who you are, but you’re missing the point. Consider: Someone is sent to investigate a wave of suicides, but he himself turns out to have dangerous, potentially suicidal tendencies; therefore, everything’s distorted, the system sabotages itself, the whole shebang explodes, it’s the end of all things! Now do you grasp my meaning?”

  “Not very well …” the Investigator murmured. He could no longer feel his hands, which were thrust into the snow.

  “It doesn’t matter. But get up, for heaven’s sake! You have to leave right away. You’ll come back tomorrow.”

  The Watchman grabbed him, raised him to his feet, propped him against a wall, and then started rummaging in his own pockets. Eventually, he found what he was looking for and handed it to the Investigator. “Take that, it’s all I’ve got.”

  The Investigator took hold of a largish stonelike object, brown and wrinkled, about four inches long, more or less round, and curved in the middle. He raised his eyes to the Watchman, not daring to formulate his question, but the latter anticipated him: “Top-quality. It may be a little dry. It’s probably been forgotten in my uniform for the past three months, but I offer it with all my heart.”

  And as the Investigator hesitated before the thing he was holding in his hand, the Watchman became frosty again and asked in a suspicious tone, “On top of everything else, do you mean to tell me you don’t eat pork?”

  XXIII

  TREMBLING WITH FEAR BUT FINALLY outside on the sidewalk, the Investigator turned around for a last glimpse of the Guard. The latter didn’t notice, however, as he’d already gone back to his newspaper and sandwich. When the Investigator looked at him, the Guard was the picture of calm, tranquilly chewing and reading the sports page.

  Earlier, inside the Enterprise, the Watchman had barely spoken to the Investigator again after giving him the sausage. The snow covering the red, green, blue, and yellow lines on the ground made them impossible to see, and the Watchman had limited himself to indicating the way out by mechanical gestures. When they were nearing the Guardhouse, the Watchman had stopped the Investigator and ordered him to remove his white coat, hard hat, and badge.

  “They’ll be returned to you tomorrow,” the Watchman said. “Equipment belonging to the Enterprise cannot leave the Enterprise.”

  The Investigator thrust his hands into his pockets, found the key ring with the old man’s photograph, and started to return it to the Watchman. “No, keep it,” he said. “It’ll bring you luck!”

  Reluctantly, the Investigator handed over the heavy coat and the too-small cap. It was a little as if he’d suddenly found himself naked, naked and frozen. His raincoat and suit were much too light and still too damp to protect him from the intensifying cold. “Yesterday,” he said, “the Guard, I think, asked me if I had an Exceptional Authorization. Would it be possible for me to obtain one? I believe it could come in handy.…”

  The Investigator went into a slight crouch, expecting a refusal, an outraged response, a sermon, perhaps some improbable—or hysterical—explanation, but the Watchman didn’t say a word. From the top pocket of his jumpsuit he took a pen and from one of the side pockets a square piece of what looked like cardboard. He scribbled something on it and gave the document to the Investigator.

  “There you are. I don’t know what purpose an Exceptional Authorization may serve in your case, but you’re welcome to it. And now I must ask you to excuse me. I have work to do.”

  He turned on his heel, walked away with long strides, and disappeared into the darkness and the swirling snow. The Investigator looked at what the Watchman had given him. It was a promotional coaster for a brand of beer. On the back of the stained, chipped square, the Watchman had written, “Exceptional Authorization granted to the holder of this card.”

  The Investigator was on the verge of calling him back, but he didn’t have the strength. After all, the beer coaster fit in with all the rest. What else did he expect? He walked resolutely over to the Guardhouse, in which he could see some light, and in that light, a man’s bent head.

  The Investigator had to traverse some distance in order to get to the man, even though, in a straight line, he couldn’t have been more than twenty yards away. But the caltrop barriers, the rolls of barbed wire, the chicanes, and the chevaux-de-frise, all of which were now back in place, were designed to create a labyrinthine passage that prevented precipitous exits as well as intrusions. Seeing that the Guard had noticed him and was observing his progress, the Investigator opted to solicit his favor with a little wave and a smile, but the movement caused the right side of his raincoat, the one with the torn and hanging pocket, to catch on the iron teeth of a piece of barbed wire, which summarily ripped a foot-long gash in the fabric. Inanimate matter is admirable; it knows no feelings, and therefore its existence is unencumbered by any weakness. You place it somewhere, and it performs its office. Only the elements, over the course of millennia, interfere with it, but it knows nothing of that. In spite of the accident, the Investigator kept a smile on his face. He didn’t want the Guard to scrutinize him too closely, because it wouldn’t have taken him long to notice that the Investigator looked like a tramp.

  “Good evening!”

  The Investigator needed to summon up all his remaining energy in order to pronounce those simple words in a natural tone of voice. The Guard was in the act of spreading the contents of a can of pâté on a demi-baguette. He was a nearly bald man with a roundish face. The newspaper in front of him, opened to the page with the sports scores, was strewn with bread crumbs. A half-empty bottle of wine stood next to an ashtray, in which a lit cigarette was smoking. Above the Guard’s head and a little to his left, monitor screens displayed fixed images of different interior and exterior parts of the Enterprise. No human being appeared on any screen. Those fragmentary images of the place gave a disturbing impression of unreality, as if surveillance cameras had been installed to watch over abandoned or never-used cinematic sets.

  The Guard had raised his eyes and pressed the switch on his microphone. “Good evening!” he said. “Not too warm, is it?”

  The Investigator was disconcerted by the Guard’s cordial voice and relaxed air. He looked at the Investigator, smiling and continuing to slather his bread with the pâté, whose delicious fragrance filtered through the tiny perforations in the glass panel that separated them.

  “I have an Exceptional Authorization!” the Investigator proclaimed, pressing the coaster against the glass.

  The Guard glanced automatically at the piece of cardboard and then shifted his gaze to the Investigator. “I’m not sure what your Authorization authorizes you to do, but you look so proud to have it that I’m happy for your sake.”

  He took a large swig of wine, followed it with a last drag on his cigarette, crushed it out, and started eating his sandwich. The Investigator watched him with such longing that the other noticed
it. “You look like you’re in pitiful shape. Let me guess: This wasn’t your lucky day, right?”

  The Investigator nodded. The man’s spontaneous kindness deeply moved him and almost made him forget his hunger. He felt his eyes getting misty.

  “Go on, hurry back to your room, where it’s nice and warm. Loitering around in this weather is only going to bring you grief. You’ve been exploited enough as it is, don’t you think?”

  The Guard took another bite of his sandwich. Although the Investigator had no clear idea of what, or whom, the man was talking about, he took pleasure in drawing out this fraternal moment.

  “What Department are you in?” asked the Guard. “Janitorial Services? You’re a modern-day slave! One more! I hope at least you’re not giving your all, are you? You and I, and thousands of others, we don’t count for them. We’re nothing. We’re barely numbers on personnel lists. Some would find the situation depressing, but I couldn’t care less. Look at me: The rule states that it’s forbidden to smoke, drink, or eat while on duty; I do all three at the same time. I trample on the rule. They want to make us do crappy work no one wants to do? Then let’s do a crappy job! I’m a free man. Since I’ve taken an immediate liking to you, I’m going to give you an example of what I mean: I’m a Guard, so therefore I’m supposed to protect the Enterprise from any and all unauthorized entry, right?”

  The Investigator nodded. He’d lost control over the movements of his body, which was shaking with cold. On his head, a heavy accumulation of snow provided him with a curious hat. The Guard kept on talking while continuing to devour his sandwich. “I assure you that hundreds of individuals could come here with the intent of stealing everything not nailed down and I wouldn’t lift my little finger to stop them, I’d let them through without pressing the least of the emergency buttons you see here in front of me. I daresay I’d open the gates even wider for them, and I’d applaud as they filled their trucks with whatever they could steal!”