by Levant, Jean
However, you should not believe that Dr. Krug has something wild or threatening. Far from it, he is a man of great civility, courteous, always self-controlled, with a deadpan sense of humor. He wore the usual uniform of his colleagues: a fine tight-fitting sweater with a crew neck and soft woolen pants, unfortunately both in always grayish tones, probably to remind us of the seriousness of his profession.
I guess he also seemed a very attractive man to most women (as long as they ignored what he really was). By the way, it was more than a guess if I judged by doctor Leone’s reactions when he entered a room. She was blushing and begging for his look as an act of charity. I should have been jealous of him but I could not, as if I had understood without even thinking that it was no use fighting against such a rival. Nevertheless, I comforted myself on thinking it was very doubtful that they had a real affair. Because I was pretty sure of one thing: Dr. Leone was a being human, she.
Dr. Krug always gave me the impression of being in a hurry. But now, thinking again about this, my impression was perhaps the same that a turtle could have on seeing a cheetah. Anyway, it first seemed to me that he wanted to redouble his efforts to catch up. So he made introductions as a host would make, what was not useless, even if we cohabited for several days, even several months for some of us.
“Here’s Brethren Hilaire Lussius of the Church of the Faithful Messengers”, he said looking at the big black man with white skin. He’s thirty years old, native from Haiti, and then, due to his illness, lived the rest of his life in France where he found God—”
“It’s the only one so” Lenfant snapped.
“His disease led us to avoid all powerful lighting advices for this meeting, as you can see,” Krug went on. “It’s indeed dangerous for our friend to expose himself to the sun or any other bright light—”
“Well, at least his problem’s set now”, Lenfant fiercely interrupted Krug on pointing at the window that faced him. “Jah had to answer his prayer, I guess”.
“I never prayed for that, you’re wrong” Lussius replied in a shrill voice. I almost startled so that I felt certain that I heard him speaking for the first time.
“He’s married, or at least he was, and he’d had two children. In addition to the Holy Scriptures, he loves general ledgers but hates calligraphy tattoos, whether they’re holy or not: I think that’s just about all for you,” Krug imperturbably said and turned to the irascible refugee on my left hand. “As for you, your name’s Pierre Lenfant. You were unmarried, childless. You’re fifty. You were gamekeeper in Pompeane’s area, in fact—”
“Not exactly,” the man corrected, “I was hunting guide. But my core business was forest ranger.”
Krug nodded as if the other man has taken the words right out of his mouth.
“You like trees indeed, as well as big dogs and weapons. I think that’s just about all for you.”
Logically, it was my turn now and I began to be wary of his “and that’s just about all for you”.
“Ramόn Estéban”, the doctor put, looking at me. “Spanish origin by both parents, had to go through the Pyrenees when he was a child because of the great depression. However, living was not much easier in France. Ramόn had then to travel from one city to another while his dad was going from one job to another. His mom—”
“I would prefer we skip this section”, I told him.
Dr. Krug was silent for a split second, fixing me with skepticism only visible by his suddenly stiff face.
“As you want. So the little Ramόn has become big, very big. He continued to travel and looked for work without much success. Ramόn then felt he was not very good for life, unless it was the other way around; He even wondered if it was worthwhile to go on like this... But he continued anyway, supported by a taste for life stronger than he thought then he met the most important person in his life. This person became his wife and they had a boy. Then his wife died along with their son. After that, Ramόn became writer and his book met with success, telling how his wife and his son were dead, or rather missing, and how much he suffered. Ramόn is now forty-five. He likes science-fiction, poetry, Spanish wine, beautiful naked women, the color orange...
“Pooh...” the woodman sniffed, “almost everybody likes beautiful naked women. Me too, I’d like beautiful naked women if I had the means to put some in my bed.”
I almost was grateful to him for having interrupted the doctor and thus avoided me the terrible and icy “and that’s just about all for you “.
I thought that he had completed introductions when he added: “And finally, here’s my collaborator, Dr. Francesca Leone, whom I designated as my substitute at the head of this shelter. Don’t trust her youth or her sweet face—you would be surprised if she tells you how old she is—Dr. Leone’s a very good in her field. She’s also and above all a person with a great sense of duty. She used to put general interest above her own interests when necessary. She always does what it needs to be done, even if it cost her. In the beginning, she did not want to take such a responsibility but I managed to convince her that she was the right person in the right place and she eventually agreed: I thank her very much.”
While Krug listed the qualities of his collaborator, I was looking at the blonde’s face which showed a slight disbelief. I felt her relief when Dr. Krug stopped talking.
“And as for you?” I asked him, partly to divert general attention from the sad woman.
“Me, I’m doctor Krug”, he replied with a smile (he was of course lying: no smile could express it better and I knew why—what an idea to take such a foolish name!). But you can call me Ariane. I’m not as formalistic as Dr. Leone. And as you can see, I haven’t lab coat.”
“You teach us a great deal,” I said, ironically. “But we already knew that your name is Arian Krug.”
“Call me Ariane, please. With a final e.”
I had to stare at him with eyes as round as Lussius’ golden cufflinks. Was he also telepathic? Could he read in my mind how I spell his first name? Well, who knows? The words produce colored pictures in our heads. I knew that. And these pictures differ not only from their sound but also from the used vowels, such as the e would be associated with white and a with black according to a famous guy. Thus, my Arian seemed to him painted with excessively dark colors.
However, Dr. Krug—I mean Ariane—had a more prosaic explanation.
“Don’t pull this face, Ramόn: it turns out that I could take a look on your story”, he said tapping the sheaf of paper which faced Dr. Leone... And yes, my name is part of the small factual mistakes you can find in there.”
“Unless you didn’t know the spelling which is correct for male,” I replied in a tone of voice full of innuendos.
“How curious’s your manner of speaking: it sounds like I was a self-named-man!” he said, pretending to trifle with my comment.
The man on my left hand, who was seething for a while, had to find unbearable to control himself more and poured out his wrath. I give you here a very light and cleaned-up version.
“I can’t believe my ears!” he shouted. “The whole world’s upside down, the sun’s out, the sky’s pitch black, my own dog wants to cut my throat and you’re still there to quibble whether Ariane takes an e or not! When are we going to come to the fact?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be so eager,” the white black man then said.
Accustomed to his silence, all of us were a bit surprised by his statement. His expression was not less notable: he stared at Ariane since this one came in the room, with tight jaws, watching the least of his moves as if he had expected that Ariane got a stick out of his pocket and dealt him.
“Monsieur Pierre isn’t wrong in substance, yet,” the doctor admitted with great pleasure, it seemed, to mix up his last and first name. “I must have lost my train of thoughts, I fear, because of our friend Ramόn’s usual digressions.”
“I’d remind you that my question was about your person, not about the spelling of your name,” I protest
ed. “You say that you’re doctor and your name’s Krug, but why should we take your words for it? What’s the real function of this shelter? A nursing home doesn’t seem the ideal building for that role. These are some true questions that we ask ourselves.”
“Speak for yourself,” Lenfant snorted. “Only a fool can believe we’re into a fallout shelter or a nursing home. It’s obvious that we came to an insane asylum.”
“Why is this so obvious to you?” Ariane asked him with an expression of deep interest. “So you think that your mental state needs care? Do you think you’re crazy?”
“Of course not. But I’ve to observe that everyone thinks I am, starting with her!” he replied pointing an accusing finger at Dr. Leone.
“Really? Dr. Leone told you that you were crazy?”
“She didn’t have to,” Lenfant answered. “His attitude towards me can’t be explained otherwise. She refused to treat me as if I were a malingerer. She despises me. And I’m even not speaking of your secretary! If I wasn’t stuck here, they’d never dare treat me like that and I’d never let them do!”
“Stuck by what? I remind you that you came to our house of your own free will, Mr. Pierre. And nobody holds you back here.”
“You do believe I’ve got a choice?!”
Dr. Krug kept silent for a moment, studying a sort of pyramid he has built by joining the tips of his fingers.
“The reason why you’re here, you know it, all of you: you’re survivors,” he finally answered. “Accordingly, you’re the last representatives of the human species. Leave this shelter and you will die, as sure as one and one is two. Consider that you’re all invaluable to us even if you aren’t in your self-esteem. Don’t despair. It’s understandable that you’d been deeply affected by the recent events. You’re disturbed—mentally disturbed, all of you, to some extent. I don’t say that you’re crazy, Pierre, because you’re not. But I say that you may become faster than you think. And you must admit that it would be very embarrassing for the last representatives of the human species. In this case, we would be forever unable to know what happened to you.”
“How can you ignore what happened to us?” said the woodman. “It’s by your buddies that we were bombarded, and you just come here and cry after the event. I bet you were quietly sitting in your underground shelters when our good old mother earth blew above your heads.”
“I know your theory,” Krug nodded, not disturbed at all by these charges.
“Even if Mr. Lenfant is wrong about his interpretation, as I think, the fact is that you hide us the true situation,” I said. “Perhaps because it’s worse than anything we can imagine. If we’re really so important to you, why are you so often out of the shelter?”
“You have misunderstood me. Or I misspoke. When I said you were survivors, I didn’t mean that you were the only ones. There are thousands, maybe tens of thousands of other shelters spread over the Earth’s surface. Furthermore, we receive new survivors every day. That requires a lot of organization and coordination. Let’s say I’m one of these coordinators. Admit, please, it’s a little difficult for me to be everywhere at once.
“I see what kind of organization you’re speaking of,” the woodman sneered. “In my opinion, it begins with a C as Concentration Camp and CIA.”
“You really believe we’re Americans?” Ariane inquired, a little blandly. “Do you really think that the US bombed Europe and the rest of the planet, not to mention its own lands? That would be strange. What would be their interest in the operation?”
“I say they started. Then others followed. It’s always like that it happens.”
“Really? When did it happen like that?” Krug asked, as if he was interested in learning (though I wondered if he did not make fun of him).
“Anyway, do Americans know why they do what they do? Why did they bomb Dresden? Why did they transform Nagasaki and Hiroshima into atomic mushrooms? Why did they invade Iraq? Why did they exterminate Red Men?”
“Not exterminate, but decimate,” I specified, “so that they’re no longer a potent rival for the enjoyment of the territory. Then they herded survivors in reserves and got them better treatments. A bit like us, in short.”
“Oh, you also believe we’re American, now?” Ariane asked me, a bit surprised, but without animosity.
“No, I don’t” I replied. “You know very well what I believe since you read my story.”
“Of course not,” Lussius agreed, without loosening his teeth, his eyes still gazing at doctor Krug. Except for one corner of his mouth, his face seemed paralyzed such was its tense.
“In this case, it must be the chinks,” Lenfant insisted. “Or else the Russians. Never trust those Asian bastards.”
“None of them”, I told him.
“Well, Jews then. Jews or Arabs. Or both together. Since they were longing for it, they’ve had their big one in the end.”
After heaping opprobrium on three or four continents, the irascible woodman sit back and fell silent with a sulky expression. Maybe he began to understand that his version of events did not withstand criticism.
There was a silence that was finally broken by doctor Krug.
“And you, Francesca?” he asked, still watching his hands which made appear and then disappear various geometrical figures. “I know you have some personal views on the matter: what do you think of those terrible events we spoke of?”
“How could I know, Ariane?” she protested, weakly blushing. “You know that I am the worst positioned person here to answer this question.”
“That’s right,” Krug said. ‘You’re the very last person who should know something about that. So my question wasn’t about what you know but about what you think: nothing prevents you to think, I presume?”
The way she turned and glanced at him would have touched the worst of men but not his cold-blooded heart. I never felt the inhumanity of this character, literally and figuratively, under its civilian appearance better than on this occasion.
Fortunately for the poor Francesca, Lussius, so discreet for now, involuntarily came to her rescue by observing: “So she’s not of yours? Is she therefore a—a survivor?”
“A survivor, she?!” Lenfant shouted. “She wouldn’t have passed two days, or rather two nights in the conditions that I endured! Besides, she obviously doesn’t know what we’re talking about. No, believe me, she and her cronies were kindly stayed in their shelters while all the witches of hell unleashed above their heads. Me, I was just in the middle of the chaos and I met a girl. A pretty good one for survival although she’s dead now. She seemed to know a lot. I’ve always thought she was American: you know one of these rich Americans who come to show their big new car or their big new yacht on the coast. Well, she had a funny theory for explaining all that mess, that it was an asteroid that struck the moon, and everything was planned long ago by governments and their cronies, so that they’d time to build underground shelters. Naturally, there was no room for fellows like me. This is why the news had been kept secret, at least for the guys who were to attend the big show in the front row seats. She said that they were pieces of moon falling on us little pieces by little pieces. According to her, this explained everything: balls of fire, earthquakes, tidal waves. I didn’t believe her at that time; maybe I should: after all, she was an upper class girl; she had first-hand information, not like us.
Dr. Krug let him finish, with courtesy but without much interest, as it seemed to me.
“I see that you begin to understand the purpose of the meeting,” he said. “Sharing your personal experiences, drawing some similarities and some differences then deducing the cause of the plight that has affected all of you. This is why I asked Dr. Leone to pick up all documents in the file she thought to help, so that we can proceed together with their examination. For this purpose, each of you was asked to write a detailed account of the tragedy, without forgetting to include your personal journey. I’m glad that you have positively responded to that request,” he added, pointi
ng at the printed sheets that his collaborator had piled in three distinct bundles.
“Not me,” the woodman said. “If you think I’m going to play your little game, then you make a big mistake.”
“Oh yes, Mister Pierre, I may assure you that we also have your side of the story.”
The irascible man stared at the third sheaf of leaves and then looked staggers at Dr. Leone.
“You—you stole my notebook! I understand now where he’s gone!”
“I have borrowed it, Mister Lenfant, not stolen,” she corrected him. “As you stubbornly refused to cooperate, I had to find a way. Don’t worry, I put back it where you had hidden it. Christine hardly took over one night for typing, although your writing gave her some problems.”
“You’ve given it to the Coun-Countess?” he stammered, with a horrified look.
“Only to Christine, the secretary.”
“That’s what I say!” he yelled. “And she read it?”
“Very likely. How could she transcribe it otherwise?”
Within a few seconds, the madman’s face changed through all the colors that human face can take. Although the secretary did not amaze us with her kindness, his reaction seemed to be clearly disproportionate. It would not bother me that she read my story, even if I am willing to acknowledge that I did not put in my “story” everything that I would be able in a diary. In fact, I would have liked. The defiant and lofty secretary would have lost probably none of her arrogance, her insolence, her cold contempt for us, despicable insects, but I believe that it would have been made her admit that I was not so uninteresting that she assumed.
“You―you could have res-respect my w-will, this is what you c-could have done!” he miserably babbled, losing his arrogance all at once.
“How important is it that your secrets are known, Pierre? All that’s over now,” Ariane told him with a hint of cruelty. “Don’t you think that those extraordinary circumstances have justified a small infringement to good manners? Instead, I congratulate Dr. Leone for her initiative. Yes, because everything must be put on the table. We need to understand what happened. You must understand it. There is no other way. Believe me all of you.”
