And so four great cities rose up between the kingdom and the cemetery, each one facing its cardinal point, four unexpected cities which came to be known as Northern Cemetery, Southern Cemetery, Eastern Cemetery and Western Cemetery, but which were later simply referred to as Cemeteries Number One, Two, Three and Four, inasmuch as all attempts to give them more poetic or commemorative names had failed. These four cities acted as four barriers, four living walls which surrounded and protected the cemetery. The cemetery represented one hundred square kilometres of almost total silence and solitude, surrounded by the outer anthill of the living, by the sound of people shouting, hooters, outbursts of laughter and snatches of conversation, the rumbling of engines, by the interminable murmuring of nerve-cells. To arrive at the cemetery was already something of an adventure. Eventually nobody could retrace the rectilinear plan of the old roads within the cities. It was easy to say where they had passed: you only had to stand in front of one of the main gates. But leaving aside some of the longer stretches of recognisable paving, the rest had got lost in the confusion of buildings and roads, improvised to begin with and then superimposed on the original plan. Only in the open countryside was the road still the highway of the dead.
And now the inevitable happened, although we do not know who started it or when. A summary investigation, carried out afterwards, verified cases on the outer periphery of City Number Two, the poorest city of all, and facing south, as we stated earlier: corpses buried in small private backyards beneath flowering plants which reappeared each spring. About this same time, like those great inventions which erupt in various minds simultaneously because the time has come for them to mature, in sparsely populated parts of the realm certain persons decided, for many different and sometimes contradictory reasons, to bury their dead near, or inside caves, at the side of forest paths or on some sheltered mountain slope. There were fewer prosecutions in those days and many civil servants were prepared to accept bribes. The statistics bureau announced that, according to the official registers, a lower mortality rate could be safely predicted, and this was naturally attributed to the government’s health programme, under the direct supervision of His Majesty the King. The four cities of the cemetery felt the consequences of the decline in the number of deaths. Certain businesses suffered serious losses, there were a fair number of bankruptcies, some of them fraudulent, and when it was finally recognised that, however laudable, the royal strategy for the nation’s welfare was not likely to concede immortality, a thoroughly repressive law was introduced to enforce the obedience of the masses. To no avail: after a short-lived outburst of enthusiasm, the cities stagnated and became dilapidated. Ever so slowly, the kingdom began to be repopulated with the dead. In the end, the vast central cemetery only received corpses from the four surrounding cities, which became increasingly deserted and silent. But the King was no longer there to see it.
The King was now very old. One day, looking down from the highest terrace of the palace, he saw, despite failing eyesight, the pointed tip of a cypress tree rising above four white walls, in all probability indicating the presence of a courtyard rather than death. But one divines certain things without difficulty, especially as one gets older. The King stored every item of news and every rumour in his head, what they told him and what they kept from him, and he realised the hour of understanding had come. Followed by a guard, as protocol demanded, he descended into the palace gardens. Dragging his royal cloak, he slowly made his way along an avenue leading to the concealed heart of the forest. There he lay down in a clearing and stretched out on the dry leaves; then summoning the guard who had fallen to his knees, he told him before dying: ‘Here’.
Things
As it closed, the tall, heavy door caught the back of the civil servant’s right hand and left a deep scratch, red but scarcely bleeding. The skin had been torn here and there, raised in several spots which began to hurt, for the uneven surface and roughness of the wood had not exerted the continuous pressure or prolonged contact likely to cause an open wound or pull back the skin thereby allowing the blood to gush out and quickly spread. Before going to the tiny office where he was due to sign on in ten minutes and work a five-hour stretch, the civil servant made his way to the First Aid Room (FAR) to have the wound dressed: his work brought him into contact with the public and there was something unsightly about that scratch. As he was disinfecting the wound, the nurse, on being told how the accident had happened, commented that this was the third such case that day. Caused by the same door.
—I suppose they’ll take it off, he added.
Using a brush, he smeared over the scratch a colourless liquid which quickly dried, taking on the colour of his skin. And not just the colour but also the opaque texture of skin, so that no one would have suspected anything had happened. Only by looking very closely would anyone be able to see that the scratch had been covered. At a quick glance there was nothing to be seen.
—Tomorrow you can pull off the film. Twelve hours should be sufficient.
The nurse looked worried. He asked him:
—Have you heard about the settee? The large one that was in the waiting-room.
—No. I’ve just arrived for the afternoon shift.
—It had to be removed. It’s in the other room.
—Why?
—We don’t exactly know. The doctor examined it immediately, but made no diagnosis. Not that it was necessary. A member of the public complained that the settee was getting overheated. And he was right. I checked it myself.
—No doubt the manufacturer’s fault.
—Yes. Probably. The temperature is too high. On any other occasion, and the doctor agreed, it would have been treated as a case of fever.
—Well, it’s not unknown. Two years ago there was a similar case. A friend of mine had to return an overcoat as good as new to the factory. He found it impossible to wear.
—And then what?
—Nothing. The factory exchanged it. And he had no further cause for complaint.
He looked at his watch: he still had ten minutes. Or was he mistaken? He could have sworn that when he injured his hand he had exactly ten minutes left. Or had he forgotten today to consult his watch on entering the building?
—Can I take a look at the settee?
The nurse opened a glass door.
—It’s in there.
The settee was long enough to seat four people and although it had obviously been used it was still in good condition.
—Would you like to try it? asked the nurse.
The civil servant sat down.
—Well?
—It’s rather uncomfortable. Is the treatment having any effect?
—I’m giving it injections every hour. So far, I haven’t noticed any difference. It’s time for another injection.
He prepared the syringe, sucked in the contents of a large ampoule and briskly stuck the needle into the settee.
—And if there’s no improvement? the civil servant enquired.
—The doctor will decide. This is the treatment he prescribed. If it doesn’t work, there’s nothing more to be done and the settee goes back to the factory.
—Fine. I’m off to work. Thanks.
In the corridor he checked the time again. Still ten minutes to go. Could his watch have stopped? He put it to his ear: the tick-tock could be clearly heard, although somewhat muffled, but the hands were not moving. He realised he was going to be very late in arriving. He hated being late. The public would not suffer, since the colleague from whom he was taking over was not allowed to leave the office until he arrived. Before pushing open the door, he took another look at his watch: the same as before. On hearing him come in, his colleague got to his feet, said a few words to the people waiting on the other side of the counter window, then closed it. That was the rule. Civil servants took over from each other without delay but the
counter window always had to be closed.
—You’re late.
—I’m afraid so. Sorry.
—It’s a quarter past the hour. I ought to report you.
—Of course. My watch stopped. That’s why I’m late. But, strangely enough, it’s still going.
—It’s still going?
—Don’t you believe me? Take a look.
They both looked at the watch.
—That’s very odd.
—Look at the hands. They’re not moving. But you can hear the tick-tock.
—Yes, so you can. I’ll say nothing about your lateness this time, considering, but I think you should tell the supervisor what is happening to your watch.
—I suppose so.
—There have been lots of curious things happening in recent weeks.
—The Government is on its guard and is almost certain to take measures.
Someone knocked on the shiny plate glass of the window. The two civil servants signed the time-sheet.
—Be careful with the main door, warned the one who was starting the shift.
—Did you get a nasty bump? Then you’re the third person today.
—And did you hear about the settee having a fever?
—Everybody knows.
—Isn’t it strange?
—It is, although it’s not uncommon. See you on Monday.
—Have a nice weekend.
He opened the window. There were three people waiting. He apologised, as the rule book instructed, and took from the first man – tall, smartly dressed and middle-aged – an identity card. He slotted it into the machine, checked the luminous symbols which came up on the screen before returning the card:
—Now then. What can I do for you? Please be brief. These, too, were the phrases stipulated by the rule book. The man replied without a moment’s hesitation:
—I’ll be brief. I want a piano.
—We don’t get many requests for pianos nowadays. Tell me. Do you really need one?
—Are they so difficult to obtain?
—The raw materials are scarce. When do you need it?
—Within fifteen days.
—You might as well ask for the moon. A piano requires raw materials of the highest quality, and they’re in short supply, if that makes my meaning any clearer.
—This piano is for a birthday present. Do you understand?
—Perfectly. But you should have placed your order sooner.
—It wasn’t possible. Let me remind you, I’m registered in one of the highest categories.
As he spoke these words, the client opened his right hand with the palm turned upwards to display a green C tattooed on the palm. The civil servant looked at the letter, then at the luminous symbols on the screen and nodded his head in affirmation:
—I’ve taken special note. You’ll have your piano within fifteen days.
—Many thanks. Do you want me to pay in full or will a deposit be enough?
—A deposit is fine.
The man took a wallet from his pocket and put the required amount of money on the counter. The notes were rectangular and made of fine, soft paper in one colour but in different shades, just as the tiny emblematic portraits which determined their value were also different. The civil servant counted them. As he gathered them together and was about to put them away into the safe, one of the notes suddenly curled up and wrapped itself tightly round one finger. The client said:
—The same thing happened to me today. The Mint ought to be more careful when printing notes.
—Have you lodged a formal complaint?
—Naturally, I considered it my duty.
—Very well. The Inspection Department can investigate both complaints, yours and mine. Here are the documents. On the date written there present yourself at the delivery office. But since you’re in category C, I assume the piano will be despatched to your home.
—That is what normally happens when I order something. Good afternoon.
—Good afternoon.
Five hours later the civil servant found himself once more at the main door. He reached out for the handle, carefully calculated the distance and, with one quick movement, opened the door and passed safely to the other side. With a muffled noise that sounded like a sigh, the automatic door slowly began to close. It was almost night. Working the second shift had its advantages: a better class of people, quality products, and no need to get up early in the morning, although in the winter when the days are shorter it could be a little depressing to go from the brightly lit office into the twilight, much too early and also much too late. Yet, although the sky was unusually overcast, this was late summer and the short stroll was altogether pleasant.
He did not live far away. There was not even enough time to see the city transform itself as dusk began to fall. In rain or sunshine, he covered the few hundred metres on foot because taxi-drivers were not allowed to pick up passengers for such short journeys and no buses passed along his street. Slipping his hands into his coat pockets, he could feel the letter he had forgotten to drop into the pillar-box when he set out for the Department of Special Requisitions (DSR) where he worked. He kept the letter in his hand in order not to forget a second time and used the underpass to get onto the other side of the avenue. Walking behind him were two women chatting to each other:
—You can’t imagine the state my husband was in this morning. Not to mention myself, but he was the first to notice what had happened.
—Honestly, it’s enough to drive anybody mad.
—We both stood there in amazement, looking at each other.
—But surely you must have heard something during the night?
—Not a thing. Neither of us.
The voices died away. The women had turned into an underpass going off in another direction. The civil servant mumbled to himself ‘What on earth were they talking about?’ And this made him think about the day’s events, about his right hand clutching the letter inside his pocket, the deep scratch the door had inflicted, about the settee suffering from fever, his watch which went on ticking with the hands still indicating there were ten minutes to go before he was due to start work. And the note tightly wrapped round one finger. There had always been such incidents, nothing too serious, simply inconvenient, but too frequent for his liking. Despite the efforts of the Government (G), it had proved impossible to avoid them, and no one seriously expected otherwise. There was a time when the manufacturing process had reached such a degree of perfection and faults became so rare that the Government (G) decided there was little point in depriving members of the public (especially those in categories A, B and C) of their civil right and pleasure to lodge complaints: a wise decision which could only benefit the manufacturing industry. So factories were instructed to lower their standards. This decision, however, could not be blamed for the poor quality of the goods which had been flooding the market for the last two months. As someone employed in the Department of Special Requisitions (DSR), he was in a good position to know that the Government had revoked these instructions more than a month ago and imposed new standards to ensure maximum quality. Without achieving any results. As far as he could remember, this incident with the door was certainly the most disturbing. It was not a case of some object or other, or some simple utensil, or even a piece of furniture, such as the settee in the entrance-hall, but of an item of imposing dimensions; although the settee was anything but small. However, it formed part of the interior furnishings, while the door was an integral part of the building, if not the most important part. After all, it is the door that transforms a space which is simply circumscribed into a closed space. In the end, the Government (G) appointed a committee to examine the situation and make some proposals. The best computer equipment available had been put at the disposal of this group of experts, which in
cluded not only specialists in electronics but leading scholars in the fields of sociology, psychology and anatomy, whose collaboration was crucial in such matters. The committee had been given fifteen days in which to present its report and recommendations. They still had ten days left but the situation was obviously getting worse.
The rain began falling, a drizzle of watery dust, light and airy. In the distance, the civil servant could see the pillar-box where he must deposit the letter. He thought: ‘I mustn’t forget this time.’ A huge covered lorry turned the nearby corner and went past him. It carried an advertisement in bold letters: ‘Carpets and rugs’. There went a dream he had never succeeded in fulfilling: to carpet his apartment. But one day, if everything went according to plan. The lorry went past. The pillar-box had disappeared. The civil servant surmised he had lost his bearings, that he had changed direction when he started thinking about carpets after seeing the advertisement. He looked around him bewildered, but also surprised to find that he was not afraid. Nothing except a vague sense of uneasiness, perhaps nervousness, like someone grappling with a problem he cannot quite solve. There was no sign of a pillar-box. He approached the spot where it should be standing, where it had stood for so many years, with its cylindrical body painted blue and that rectangular orifice, a mouth forever gaping and silent and giving access to its belly. The soil where the pillar-box had once stood was still dry and showed signs of having been recently disturbed. A policeman came running up to him:
—Did you see it disappear? he enquired.
—No. But I almost did. Had it not been for a lorry passing in front of me, I’d have seen it.
The policeman was taking down notes. Then he closed his notebook and, with his foot, pushed aside a clod of earth which had been brought up from the cavity on to street level and said in the tone of voice of someone who is simply thinking aloud:
—Had you been watching, the pillar-box would probably still be here.
The Lives of Things Page 6
