by Unknown
quiet, regular steps. From time to time he was no longer to be heard; it seemed that he had completely disappeared; but a moment later his steps resounded again, and it was as if nothing could interrupt them. Thomas pondered this incident. Finally he curled up under his coat and closed his eyes. He was drawn from his torpor by the opening of a window. He abruptly stood up. The noise was coming from the upper floors. But his gaze was not drawn upward; right next to the bakony another window was illuminated, and - a strange sight - a man held in his outstretched hand a pitcher he was swinging back and forth, as if he were trying to cool some boiling liquid by exposing it to the freezing air. Thomas yelled to him: "It's very cold out here. May I come in for a moment?" The man stared at him intently. "Come in if you want," he said. This re sponse was meaningless. Where could he go in? Thomas made a gesture to indicate his predicament. "How did you get here?" said the man. Thomas did not answer. The mo ment for asking such a question had passed. The man spoke again: "Who are you?" He spoke with a curt voice that showed no hint of indulgence. "Since when have you been staying in the house?" So many questions! Yet Thomas did not have the sense that he was really being interrogated. The man did not wait for any answers, as if to empha size that the answers didn't matter; only the questions were important. Just then someone began to beat carpets on the floor above; they were certainly doing some large scale cleaning; water flowed over the window panes; brooms knocked against walls; dust rags were snapped into the wind. At this hour? It was incredible. What was going on? One might have thought that the morning had already come and that the large vestibule never received any sunlight. Thomas looked up, but in vain; he saw noth ing, but although he could not penetrate the shadows, he stood there lis tening to the echoes of this calm, regular life, feeling that in this existence full of tranquility lay the hopes for which he had abandoned everything and which justified its perils. He said in a hushed voice: "I am expected on the uppermost floor. Could you not tell me the way?" "Absolutely," said the man. "But first you are expected here." His tone was threatening, and it was difficult to take his assent seriously. There was nothing to say in response to his objection either. Thomas passed over it in silence. 66
"Is it possible," he asked, "for me to reach the second floor without pass ing through the grand hall?" Receiving no response, he added: "This prob ably is the second floor," and turned to his interlocutor. He noticed with surprise that a ray of light was emanating from the pitcher. What he could see of the man's face was manly and beautiful. His eyes appeared to sink deeply under thick eyebrows. A short beard covered his chin. After exam ining his face, Thomas thought it necessary to say: "Forgive me, I did not think that I had really been summoned." "Come on then," the man said curtly. A strange invitation, for it was he who closed the window and went away. Thomas now thought of nothing other than leaving the balcony and making his way to the bedroom above. It was first necessary to gain the support of the person who was working up there. He approached the far end of the railing and stared into the darkness, and the darkness was as thick as ever. He shouted. A sly sounding voice responded. A light was suddenly lit, and a young girl appeared in the window. It was Barbe. She did not seem at all resentful of his abandonment of her; he left, she forgot him; he returned, she welcomed him; this is what made his reia tions with her pleasant but useless. With no consideration for the present time and place, which might have caused her to be a little more reserved, she cried out with joy, and her gaiety became truly unbearable when she saw Thomas's companion. "And where is my darling?" she cried. "Where is Dom?" Thomas was almost glad when he saw the window on the balcony open and the man coming toward him. He was large and strong. His presence was imposing. But Barbe was not impressed. "Goodbye," she said, waving her hands, "goodbye to my little pet." She cried out again when the man crossed the threshold: "What a handsome fellow!" Thomas blushed at hearing her speak so, but the man paid no heed to this childishness. He led the way for Thomas, who almost had to run after him. It was all the more difficult in that Dom, still half asleep and only now catching on to the maidservant's sweet talk, kept turning around and wanted to go back. They quickly passed through the large room, now lit by small candles placed at regular intervals, and could hardly recognize the arrangement of the desks and the placement of the carpets. The whole room had been turned upside down since they had left. Someone had cer tainly come with the intention of cleaning the room, but as often happened
in the house, the work had been interrupted, and all one could see were overturned chairs and papers scattered everywhere, not to mention the curtains that were spread out on the floor. At the other end of the room a large and beautiful doorway - probably the counterpart to the window was open. Heavy sculptures decorated both of its door panels. The golden hinges shone. It was the most majestic part of the room. "Go in," said the man. Had they arrived? Thomas bumped violently against a wall and knocked over a small rack loaded with brooms, brushes, and cleaning rags. It was only a narrow hallway, probably serving as a garbage room. As he tried to put the implements back in order -surrounded by the dust he himself had raised - the man opened a door at the other end of the corridor, and, in a gentler tone, he asked him to wait for a few moments. Thomas did not notice at first the strangeness of the request. He was too taken up with his annoyance at the existence of such a small room whose filth and horrid smell inspired the most vigorous revulsion. "A real dump," said Thomas to himself. At that point he thought there was no need to wait, and he knocked on the little door. "Come in, come in!" someone shouted to him. His first thought upon entering the room was that he had stepped into a cafe. There were tables placed along the walls, and several people were sitting with drinking glasses or large white bowls. The middle of the room was empty. On the right, at an angle, there was a platform that could be used by a small orchestra. A young man approached Thomas and asked him to sit down at a table where two men were waiting for him. He was greeted with indifference. The people nearby were whispering with a forced and weary animation, holding their heads down, their foreheads leaning almost onto the table. Their cheeks were radiant, but this appear ance of life did not give an impression of good health, and the fever that agitated them showed their desire to say everything, to see everything, before they were plunged by fatigue back into their usual passivity. The young man who had accompanied Thomas, a domestic no doubt, poured some thick coffee with a refreshing odor into a large cup. Thomas drank greedily, unconcerned with the others; he had never drunk anything so delicious and was suddenly overcome with a great thirst that he could not seem to quench. The domestic remained standing next to the table for a moment, no doubt so that he might pour a second cup for him if he so de68
sired; Thomas had only to make a sign, and the magnificent brew flowed for him again. "It's time to get to work," said one of his neighbors at this point, partly in order to impart information and partly to silence the conversations. The word work penetrated Thomas's mind only very slowly. Before he had understood its meaning, the others had grasped it, and the way in which each one repeated the phrase, or an analogous one, out loud or in a murmur, prevented him from considering the significance of this word very carefully. Then someone knocked on the little door, hidden under a drape, through which he had entered. These sharp knocks resonated in the room in an extraordinary manner, to the point that he considered it sur prising that these people, so curious, so avid, so intent on offering endless commentaries about everything, greeted such an intervention so indiffer ently. "Someone knocked," he could not help saying to the man next to him. The latter gazed at him with brilliant eyes. "Yes," he said, "it's a joke played by the domestics who work in the small room outside. It's best not to pay any attention." He had spoken with an air of importance and continued to stare at Thomas. It seemed that he had waited for this opportunity to take a good look at Thomas, to study him in silence, as he was doing, without it being possible to know what his purpose was. In his immediate irritation, and so as to take no part in this imperti
nence, Thomas turned to the domestic and held out to him the empty cup. But the domestic did not understand that he meant for him to take it and to go away. On the contrary, he came closer and stood so close in fact that, to escape from his zealousness, Thomas had to push back his armchair, only to find himself almost pressing against his neighbor. The latter, having satisfied his curiosity, smiled amiably and ar ranged the seat's cushions, which he moved skillfully into place. Then he said in a low voice, looking at Thomas again: "When can we talk?" The domestic, suddenly very interested, leaned over the table, and Thomas could only make a gesture indicating how difficult any private conversation would be. "It doesn't matter," said the young man. "All the domestics here are in discreet. So you be careful," he said, turning to the servant, who, far from taking offense at this remark, began to laugh without changing his posi tion.
Thomas abruptly pushed him away and turned his chair in the other direction. "Now we can talk," said his neighbor. "My name is Jerome, my compan ion is named Joseph. You are new here?" he asked. In reality it was not a question; it was rather a reminder of the situation in which Thomas found himself and which alone made the conversation possible. So Thomas did not answer. "As a result," he continued, "you are ignorant of many things here, and you have a tendency to pass harsh judgments on what you see. All the beginners are like that. How could they make their way into this dark and poorly kept house without receiving a very bad impression? They see nothing but reasons for complaining. And what reasons! Do they even know what room they live in? Hardly have they gotten settled, when they are forced to move. We have a habit of saying that the tenants are eter nal vagabonds who do not even know their way. That's somewhat exag gerated, but at bottom it is true. Aside from a few very privileged people whose whims we must respect, no one can rightly swear that he will sleep twice in the same bed, and it's nothing but a constant coming and going of people who, sometimes walking in their sleep, pass down the halls half dressed in their disheveled nightclothes." "I have not had to suffer from such inconveniences," said Thomas. "I have not yet been assigned a residence." "Just as I was saying," the young man began again. "It's incredible. How can one tolerate such things? Not that your situation is the worst there is, far from it. Obviously it's unpleasant not to have a room and to have to rely on chance. At first, you take a certain liking to it, such freedom has its charms, and you believe it's always possible to return to the room you left behind. But these illusions quickly vanish. When you have understood what worries you expose yourself to if you do not know your residence be forehand, when you see yourself driven from door to door, when even the empty rooms are closed to you, then you no longer enjoy the uncertainty of the beginning, and freedom seems a disgrace from which you seek in vain to be redeemed. Already in the morning you think of nothing but the evening's shelter; you think of nothing but the night, and it is com mon that, in their obsession with this twilight that each hour brings closer, the tenants no longer even pay any attention to the day and live in per petual night. Such an existence wears down even the most sturdy among 70
us. The searches that at first absorbed every minute are now abandoned. What good are these exhausting journeys on foot when the discovery of an empty apartment comes to nothing? So you pass your days mulling over ridiculous hopes; some even memorize the plan of the house - or rather what they believe to be the plan, for of course the true layout of the rooms remains unknown to them, and they content themselves with the most miserable scrap on which a few lines have been drawn at random. Most do not even have the strength to think about the future; they stay where they are without moving or thinking, absorbed in memories of their past suc cesses in which they now live as though in an ideal home. Sooner or later they fall, and when this happens they must indeed be given a place, which is done in secret so as not to damage the good name of the house. "That's a sad picture," said Thomas. "And this is the situation I'm sup posed to be happy about? Where are the advantages?" "It's hard to imagine them," said the young man. "And yet they are real. How can I explain this to you? As far as I can judge from my modest in sights, they consist in a sort of freedom with respect to the staff. If you are deprived of a room, the staff is not obliged to serve you; you do not offi cially belong to the house; you cannot therefore claim the attentions that are due only to real tenants. But of course everything happens in reality in a much less rigid way, and the domestics sometimes take it upon them selves to give you a hand." "Pardon me," said Thomas, "but I still don't see the advantages." "Just wait," said the young man. "We're coming to that. But first you must tell me something. Have you already had dealings with the staff?" "I think so," said Thomas. "I would respond in an even more positive way if your question did not give me cause for doubt. Does he not belong to the service staff?" he asked, pointing to the domestic who, leaning com fortably on his elbows against the back of the armchair, was following the conversation. "No doubt," said the young man, smiling with an air of superiority. "Of course. Hey there, do you hear what this gentleman is asking," he added, turning to the servant. "Do you really belong to the service staff?" The domestic thought this was an excellent joke and went into fits of convulsive laughter accompanied by all sorts of gesticulations. The young man did not share this raucous joy, and he gave him a look that was both sad and severe. 71
"He is only too much a part of it - of the staff, I mean," he said. "You need only look at his face: indiscreet, lazy, proud, they're all like that here. What's more, he is the most insignificant of all; he is the most negligible of the negligible. That's why one can hardly tell that he is attached to the service of the house; he is but a distant reflection of the true domestics. He has, therefore, only relatively small defects. One can tolerate him if need be, and in any case he is forgotten when he is no longer there. Unfortu nately it is a completely different story when it comes to those who are responsible for the house. A truly detestable crowd they are. These fellows are almost always invisible; it is useless to call them or to think of meeting up with them; since we know that they live in the basement, some ten ants, angry at having to wait for them in vain, sometimes go down to look for them in their lair. What happens then? What do they see? They come back up racked with such disgust that they are incapable of answering our questions, so that we give up asking any more about it. Later they explain that they found huge unoccupied rooms stuffed to overflowing with every kind of waste and garbage. And this is quite possible when you know their habits. But others counter that domestics have never lived in the under ground rooms and that they spread this rumor only to get rid of clients." "Now that does not surprise me at all," said Thomas. "Until now I have had very little to do with the staff, and strictly speaking perhaps I have had nothing to do with them at all. But what I have seen is enough. With this in mind, I must ask you a question. Tell me why the tenants tolerate such disorder?" "It isn't a question of having to tolerate it," said the young man, with a sigh. "It is not even certain that we suffer from it. What do we have to re proach them with? The bad upkeep of the house, the rooms that are never cleaned or that are only half cleaned, the meals served to us at any hour of the day without any announcement beforehand? All these are really only small matters, and we learn to look the other way when it comes to many things. No," he added, "it cannot be said that we put up with too much; if we suffer, it is because we do not put up with enough." "It is not my place to offer an opinion," said Thomas. "As you said, I'm a newcomer. You have certainly reflected on the situation before I ever had a chance to. Yet I cannot approve your method. Look at the rooms. You ac knowledge that they are generally neglected or badly kept, and indeed I'm expressing myself with moderation; in reality, they're downright pigsties; 72
it would be difficult to find dirtier rooms; the air is unbreathable; staying in one for only a few hours is torture. Do you not agree?" Thomas asked the young man, who listened without showing any approval. "I know," he responded, "I know it only too well; I have a particularly delicate nature, and for me it's a veritable t
orture." "Well," said Thomas, raising his voice, "why don't you file a complaint? Why don't you make a report? Why don't you bring together the other tenants who certainly must think as you do and who would be happy to have improvements? Could it be," he added, almost shouting, "that they take no account of complaints? Could it be that, far from taking account of them, they would bring them back down on the heads of those who have the courage to say out loud what they think? I would not be surprised." "Quiet," said the young man, looking terrified and distressed. "Please, don't shout. If you let yourself get carried away, you'll never be able to hear me out. Things are not exactly what you think. File a complaint? Who hasn't filed a complaint? That is only too easy, and it is not what gets the attention of those gentlemen. On the contrary, whenever they are over whelmed with official complaints, they seem happy about the fact. Ap parently, at these times they have been heard singing in their meetings. There is no better way to please them. Aside from this result, what are the effects of these complaints that seem to you to be such a good method? The only effects I see are disastrous. If you are unfortunate enough to trans mit your request through official channels, you are lost. For during the time it is being examined - and God knows if anyone considers it with any care -your room is subject to a prohibition. Under the pretext that an investigation is being carried out, you do not have the right to inhabit it; and if you disregard the prohibition, you'll go through hell. Not only does your room no longer benefit from these little chance cleanings that in ordinary times can always be expected at the whim of a domestic, but each day servants secretly bring heaps of new trash, disgusting garbage with an unbearable smell. Why do they do this? They are only acting out of zeal ousness and can in no way be blamed. They are domestics who have taken your cause to heart, who absolutely want it to triumph, and who, in order to attract more attention to the scandal, try to make it even more obvi ous. They can only be encouraged. Despite the disgust and the depression it causes, we beg them to redouble their efforts. What else is there to do? If they were not thanked and encouraged in their work, they would be73
