Now I am outside and I’m still crying. I’m walking. Weaving my way through the crowd, with my head down. I cry. All the way home. Nine kilometers of tears. Without his pebbles Tom Thumb is lost, adrift. On the razor’s edge, the path of exile. The snowy path of this elsewhere at the end of the world, looking out onto nothingness.
In the icy bathroom, with all the rage of despair I rub my aching limbs and think of what my shrink has said. I didn’t waffle at all today. That truly was a first. I didn’t have to go hunting for my words. I speak the language of exile perfectly. But I haven’t incorporated it. I don’t feel at home in it. I don’t like the harsh sounds of this strange, indefinable language. I have no affinity, no intimacy with the coarse speech and irascible expressions of these polar islanders. I’m not at ease. And yet today I surpassed myself. Without realizing it. Does language, any language, flow more easily when the subject is love?
For how many years have I been coming to these sessions? So, for three years I have been cheating. Keeping silent about an emotional trauma. That’s what the shrink said. Yes, something like that. I refused to talk about the pain I was carrying. I emphasized the rapes, the imprisonment, my homesickness in order to cover up the abandonment. Del abandoned me. My love abandoned me. The crux of the hurt. All the rest is paraphrase. I rub between my legs until I bleed. I tell myself that the worst of it is that I will never know why or how I was spared, protected, saved.
Im going to go and talk to her. Yes, I will go and find the translator in the park. She goes there every Sunday. To the Leibzen Park. I’ve been following her for weeks. I know her habits. How she spends her free time. Her handful of friends. I say friends, but they may only be colleagues. Vague acquaintances. The former bait 455 goes running every day. She often goes to the cinema. Alone. She spends hours in museums. Occasionally with someone. She spends her Sundays in the park. She goes jogging. Walks for half an hour. Stretches out on a bench when it’s not freezing. Otherwise, she passes her time in one of the cafés around the park. She always has a pile of newspapers and several books, and goes back and forth reading them. With her pencil in her hand. She often marks the pages which claim her attention. I had decided to wait for her outside her neighborhood cinema, but then in the end I opted for the park. Tomorrow, Sunday, I’ll go and speak to her. Tell her everything. I have taken notes, so I won’t forget anything. Perhaps I’ll begin with the end. With our argument, my Vima. Or should I say, my end. With you gone, I’m not living. I’m vegetating. I’ll begin with the moment our fates were sealed, entwined. Our quarrel and her salvation. Thanks to you, my Vima, she escaped death. In fact, I’ll begin with you. Here’s what I’ll tell her: You owe your life to my wife.
I remember every moment of that night and the rush of days before I fled. You saved me from drowning and you went to live with your father, to be with the children. You came back the next day. At around noon. Without the children. I was relieved. I thanked you for saving me . . . You interrupted my futile words. You wanted to go straight to the heart of the matter. You wanted to know all about the prisoner. You said, Above all don’t lie. What crime did that girl commit to deserve that? You pointed to the CD you had left on the night table. You went on in a sinister voice, We’ll watch it together, since you brought it into our home. I began spouting out information, as if I were in the presence of a superior. A salutary form of conditioning from my job. It was the only way to stay on course. You did not take your eyes off me.
The prisoner has been put on file as a first class bait, and given the number 455. Her true identity is not to be found in any of the prison records. Solely in the central files at Security. Prisoners belonging to this category are always arrested in the same manner. The individual . . . You got exasperated, you interrupted, tersely, This one happens to have a name, as far as I know. I remained silent for a few seconds. Your gaze was piercing. You knew that her name was Vima, like you. You had heard the Sardive brothers call her Vima the whore. I knew what you wanted. You wanted a substitution to take place. You wanted me to confuse the two of you; had I forgotten that you could be every bit as disconcerting and intransigent as Vima, 455? I started over. Vima must have been arrested by civilians, not agents with a warrant. You pointed out, That’s called kidnapping, not arrest. I had to reformulate my words. Vima was kidnapped by agents in civilian clothing, wearing balaclavas. That is the method of arrest used for baits. For the last eighteen months she has been held in Ravine. Her husband was sentenced to fifteen years of prison for subversive activities and plotting against the security of the state, and after his detention in Ravine he was transferred to another maximum security prison. He is suspected of being at the head of a small group of activists. Vima will be used as an instrument to break her husband. You let out a cry of horror. Then you said, Go on. I swear on the life of our children that that is all I know about this woman. You were stunned, and said, And what about this? You waved the CD at me, What is your role in all this? What could I say? I no longer know who I am, nor what I am doing, nor what my role is, as you put it. I murmured, The prison authorities gave me this CD two days ago. They cannot understand how Vima manages to resist. No one resists the Sardive brothers. Vima, the heroine whose lips are sealed, is an extraterrestrial to them. No matter how much they shatter her body, she doesn’t flinch. No one has been able to subdue her. It’s beyond comprehension. I have to find the breach. You stared at me, wide-eyed. The breach? I said, Yes, the breach which might indicate any eventual complicity. Now your eyes were staring out of your head. A wild, demented look, which disgusted me. You started laughing. The insane laugh of a lunatic. You were on the verge of choking. I shook you violently. You screamed. Do you really mean to say that your idiot superiors actually think she’s in cahoots with her rapists? Do you too believe in a complicity between those perverts and this poor woman? I remember how your slender body trembled. A delicate shrub caught in a storm. You said, A demonic system which uses violence will eventually self-destruct. In the meantime I want to watch the CD with Vima 455 again, no matter what. You said you wanted to see me in my element. At my observation post. Yes, you barked, we’ll watch your CD in the living room, on the big television screen. I was sweating profusely. Cold sweat down the length of my spine. And you were suddenly so calm again, as you repeated, Let’s watch your porn film. With the star who has the same name as me. That should excite you! On you went. In a bland tone of voice. As if you were merely chatting. Innocently. About everyday life. Nothing important. You said, You just do your job. Find the breach. What’s behind the failure of these rapists who have run out of ideas? And I will examine the gaping hole inside you, your abysmal lack of humanity. At least I won’t do it behind your back! Let’s get going. Just pretend I’m not here! I threw myself at your feet. Burst into tears. You pushed me away and screamed. Do you want to know what I think of your position as project manager for the security enhancement of the nation’s penitentiaries? It’s a job for mental retards. It’s just a chore where one group of murderers pays top dollar to another murderer, who has the nerve to think he’s above them. The fine gentleman who does not use his own hands to kill. I shouted, Enough, enough, you might as well kill me here on the spot. Or why don’t I do it for you, and make things easier for you. You want to die? That’s too easy! you said, You have to deserve it. And you added, After all, you’re just a poor victim. Yet another. The system is churning them out en masse. In a fractured society, it’s the tyrant’s privilege to divide people, alienating some of them and crushing others. Then you collapsed, with your full weight. You held your head in your trembling hands. You were weeping. Your tears drove a whirlwind through my heart. You began speaking in a low voice. Exhausted but determined. You said, You have only one solution, and that is to leave. Once you’ve rescued this woman. You are going to arrange her escape. And her husband’s. I don’t want to know how you go about it. You must have more than enough power for trifles like this. You said, That’s the only way out. They
are the ones who will save you, in the end. They’re your only chance, if you ever want to see me again. I don’t want my children to have a murderer for a father. I will come and join you, and bring them with me, if everything goes well. You said, I’m going to live with my father. You immediately pointed your finger at me. A familiar gesture. Tender. The one you used with the children to make them obey right away. A gesture which meant, if you protest, or talk back, Mama won’t speak to you for forty-eight hours. For them that was the worst punishment. As it was for me. I remained silent. You said, I’ll be back, in a few days.
I was on it right away, as we say in our jargon. The next morning at dawn I went to the Circle’s headquarters, to the Bureau for officials assigned to Supreme Commander’s Residence. I stole a pile of letterhead. Stamped every sheet. Knowing full well that I would be signing my death warrant if I were caught. Then I immediately went home. Started planning my strategy by making a few phone calls, a few debts to call in. They could figure out how to justify my absence for the few days’ leave I was granting myself. I set to work. Spent a few hours copying out falsified orders. A few more imitating the signature of the Supreme Commander’s private secretary. I racked my brains to come up with a letter that would justify the urgent transfer of bait 455 to the Army Hospital. It was a banal procedure but was meant to be used only in exceptional circumstances. They would set the bait back on her feet out of a concern for profitability, and only if it were truly worth it. I took all the necessary precautions to depict 455 as the brains behind a plot.
Once I’d worked out the scenario, I went to see the examining magistrate for in camera lawsuits. A formidable fellow. A fox. Wary. Suspicious. Lying in wait for his own shadow. Without raising an eyebrow he added the necessary codes for a transfer along with his signature on the back of the warrant and handed it back to me. He didn’t ask any questions other than the date of my next trip to Asia. He wanted to place an order with me for some silk for the youngest of his three wives. Done deal. Plus a kimono for Your Honor, your wife will appreciate it, I’m sure. I left him and went to Ravine, impressed by my own daring. I would oversee the transfer in person. Which was less usual, suspicious even. But I had all my alibis to deflect suspicion, not to mention the blessing of the judge, who had called the prison warden. The miracle of the kimono! I put on my officer’s uniform. This gave me the authority to silence anyone who might start asking questions. At around six o’clock in the evening I snatched the prisoner from the Sardive brothers’ clutches, right in the middle of a torture session. She was in a bad way. I took her straight to the hospital. Left her in the care of one of the most gifted doctors in the unit, reserved for baits.
That same evening I contacted her husband’s former lawyer. A so-called “reformed” man. One of those countless independent lawyers who ended up in prison, were tortured and then released on bail. They no longer had the right to practice their profession. I arranged to meet him in a restaurant outside town, and told him what I wanted. Initially for him to get in touch with Vima’s mother, and give her a visiting permit for the Army Hospital. I would see him again for the next stage. The poor man was terrified. He began stammering, Why me? He was under surveillance and naturally he was afraid this was a trap. He went pale at the thought that he might get caught and have to go back to prison. I threatened him. Told him I would send him there in person if he didn’t cooperate. Then I reassured him. I wanted to help Vima. I told him I was giving him a chance, after a fashion, to practice his profession. Risk-free. I guarantee you. The guy couldn’t believe his ears. Who was I to be so sure of what I claimed? His tone became aggressive. A burst of courage, of disguised fear . . . I could easily understand what he was going through. I smiled. I’m on your side now, I said. And I repeated my words, thinking about you, my Vima. On your side. Since this morning, I have been a reformed man. A reformed murderer. I’ve simply changed sides. Which should be enough of an explanation for you. He didn’t dare ask whether my repentance smelled of sulfur the way his did. I told him that as soon as Vima was on her feet, I would obtain false passports for her and her mother. They would have to disappear immediately afterwards. She will refuse to leave without her husband, said the lawyer firmly. Don’t worry, he’ll be going, too. Sooner or later. But time is of the essence. We have to be quick. Two days later I found out that Vima’s husband had been released not long after her arrest. As for their comrades, they were all on file in archive XXII. These are secret archives where undivulged summary executions are recorded. These prisoners are not allowed visits, and their families assume they are still alive. The authorities resort to this cloak to veil their wrongdoings, in order to conceal the astronomical number of executions. I didn’t have time to go into the matter. To start looking into those secret files might only attract the attention of any shit-stirrers on my trail. There are plenty of them who would like nothing better than to prove their supremacy when it comes to overzealousness. Anything is permitted if it means getting to blow your trumpet in high places. There was no time to put my mind at rest. In spite of the desire nagging at me, I would never know for sure whether Vima’s husband sold his comrades or not. No! Vima’s talisman, that word no, which was meant to protect him from everyone and everything, did not have the desired effect this time. The question would remain unanswered. In the meantime, I had to be cunning. Hide the truth from Vima. What would she become without that love which made her invincible? The passports were ready. The women would be leaving by land. One of my smugglers would go with them to a border post where the customs officials were not too fussy. But as I suspected, Vima refused to leave the country without her husband. Her mother was in a panic. According to the lawyer, who was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, she wanted to see me. She wanted to have a meeting with her daughter’s savior before her daughter got arrested again. I suggested a telephone conversation. I obtained a secure cell phone for her through the lawyer. I called her. Her voice frayed the moment she said her daughter’s name. Then came a succession of words in dark colors where a pale ray of hope filtered. Hope in the form of my person. I reassured her. I asked her to be ready for an imminent departure. Del would be joining them. And if he couldn’t, I would find a way to persuade Vima to leave the country as soon as possible. I knew what I still had to do. I was perfectly aware of the way things stood. The only one who could persuade Vima to leave the country was Del. Vima drew her strength from this absolute love, she obeyed only the logic of her private, most interior feelings. Her loyalty protected her from everything rotten that lay outside her love. A love she wanted to keep intact. In a pure state. Is it not in the notion of loss that we measure the dizzying intensity of love? And in the hope of meeting again, the strength to go on living? I had just lost you. I was going to wrench myself from you, solely in the hope of finding you again someday. Vima and I would be undergoing the ordeal by fire of our mystics. From that moment on, between myself and that unknown woman who bears your name there was tacit, secret, and no doubt unconscious complicity.
I found Del’s address quite easily. A godforsaken place in the east of the country. A village at the edge of the desert where he was living like a hermit. His years in jail had crushed him. Rotten teeth. A hollow gaze. A hunched back. His hair had turned white. I knew exactly what they had put the guy through in order to lobotomize him. To transform a man in his prime into a vegetable. It was plain to see. It wasn’t even worth making anything up. He didn’t care about any of that. Just what did I want. For him to write a note to Vima. When he heard his wife’s name he shuddered. He didn’t ask any questions, didn’t want any explanation. All I had to do was dictate what he had to write. He grabbed the sheet of paper I held out to him and did as I asked: “Leave the country. I beg you. I will join you. I promise. The man who helped you will do the same for me.” I put his note in my pocket. Turned on my heels to hurry away. The man’s misery was my own. It went straight to my heart. Vima’s broken love sent me back to our tragedy. I fled from him as f
ast as I could. I was sitting in the car when I saw him running toward me, breathlessly. I rolled down the window. He was gasping. Coughing, and spitting blood. In his rasping voice he said, Give me back the paper, I have to add our code. That way she’ll be sure the note is from me. He scribbled “Djadjal” at the bottom of the page and handed it back. I started up without delay, but I could see him standing outside his hut. I thought I could hear him weeping. In fact I was the one who was weeping. I also thought I could see a child in the rearview mirror, going up to him, unsteadily. Then I lost sight of the little toddling creature, clinging to his father’s leg.
The Man Who Snapped His Fingers Page 6
