Memoirs Found in a Bathtub

by Stanisław Lem

  “You were assigned here then,” he sighed. I said nothing.

  “There will be Mass,” he observed piously. “Obsequies first, then Mass. If you wish…”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course not.”

  It was growing colder, an icy wind stirred the candles. Then something near the casket caught my eye: a large, heavy air conditioner, churning out freezing air through its metal grating.

  “Not a bad arrangement,” I remarked. The monk looked quickly over his shoulder and touched my sleeve with an incredibly white, soft hand.

  “Permit me to report,” he whispered, “…many cases of gross negligence, incompetency, conduct not becoming an officer… The sergeant prior is not performing his duties…”

  He said this through his teeth, at the same time watching me closely, ready to retreat at any moment. But I kept silent, my eyes fixed on the shadowy dead man. This lack of response seemed to embolden the monk.

  “Of course, it’s none of my business… I hardly dare,” he breathed in my ear. “But if I might ask, in the hope that I could be of some assistance, in the course of duty … your orders are from … high up?”

  “That’s right,” I said. He grimaced in admiration, exposing large, horsy teeth.

  “Permit me—I—I am not disturbing you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well … you must know that the failures of the Mission are becoming so grave that—”

  “You’re a missionary?” I asked. He smiled.

  “I was speaking of our division, not of our dedication to the Lord.”

  “Your division?”

  “The Theological Division. Quite recently, Father Amnion from the Confidence Section misappropriated…”

  And he went on. But I lost the thread of what he said—the dead man’s little finger, the one that refused to bend with the others, was now moving. The other fingers seemed carved from one piece, like a wax model of a shell, but this one, plumper and pinker than the rest, twitched back and forth, as if to express the slightly rakish character of the deceased. Yet there was something so incorporeal, so fantastically light in that motion, one thought less of resurrection and more of hummingbirds and the kind of tiny insects that appear only in a blur before us. The tremor became more and more pronounced. “Impossible!” I cried. The monk cringed and clutched me.

  “You have my sacred word! I speak the truth!”

  “What? Oh, I see… Well, tell me more,” I said, suddenly realizing I preferred his oppressive company to that of the dead man. Besides, the dead man wouldn’t dare attempt anything more in the presence of two people.

  “The confession files are poorly kept, there’s no supervision. At least half of our plants have been spotted. Brother Lieutenant Gatekeeper is extremely careless about giving out passes and writing reports. The Holy Spirit Section has completely neglected provocation activities, angel-baiting…”

  “You don’t say,” I muttered. The finger was still. I knew I should leave immediately, but didn’t want to be impolite.

  “And how is the situation regarding the performance of religious duties?” I threw out, reluctantly playing the role of interrogator—against my better judgment, but at this point I had little choice.

  The monk’s excitement mounted. The passion of informing was on him. He hissed, his watery eyes glittered, he foamed at the mouth.

  “The practice of religious duties!” he said, hoarse with impatience to cast off the heavy weight of accusations he had to make. “The sermons are not effective, attendance is down, the regulations on bugging prayers are generally disregarded. This holds for all denominations, but I speak only of my own. The transgressions in the Higher Goal Section would have led to a scandal; they were hushed up only because Brother Agent Malchus was able to supply the sexton with several willing nuns. And Chaplain Major Orfini, instead of notifying the authorities, plays with mysticism and preaches retribution not of this world.”

  “You mean, off-planet?”

  “If only! Oh no, he—but excuse me, I don’t even know your name…”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Of course … now the retribution of Judgment Day, the Apocalypse, that I can understand, thanks mainly to the most efficient methods our scientific colleagues have made possible … and then, to make matters worse, Malchus goes around bragging left and right that he’s cracked the Bible code! Do you know what that means?”

  “Blasphemy?” I offered.

  “Blasphemy the Good Lord can take care of, that’s no problem. It’s our whole order that’s at stake, the very theological foundations for the dogma of Divine Desertion!”

  “Fine, fine,” I said, impatient, “let’s skip the theories. This Brother Agent Malchus—what was that all about? Get to the point, Brother.”

  “As you wish. We’ve known for a long time that Malchus was a triple agent. The way he said his psalms, you understand… Brother Almigens checked him out and we planted a few civilians. For instance, he was seen making certain signs while prostrate before the altar—that in itself constitutes an infraction of paragraph fourteen. Then in the course of the routine quarterly examination we found silver threads sewn into his chasuble.”

  “Silver threads?”

  “What else? For video transmission. I personally conducted an investigation among the communicants.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “that’ll do. I get the picture. You may go now, Brother.”

  “But, but I haven’t begun to—”

  “Dismissed!”

  The monk stood at attention, about-faced, marched off. I was left alone. So … religion here was no extracurricular activity, no harmless hobby, but another front for the usual business? The little finger twitched—I reached over and grabbed it, but it broke loose and rolled into a fold in the flag, lying there like a little pink sausage. I picked it up and examined it closely: it was an inflated membrane, the wrinkles and nail painted on in great detail. What sort of prosthetic device was this? Hearing footsteps, I quickly pocketed the object. Several people entered the chapel, carrying a wreath. I retreated behind a column and watched them arrange funeral ribbons with gold letters. A priest appeared at the altar and an acolyte adjusted his vestments. I looked over my shoulder: beneath a bas-relief of Peter Renouncing Christ was a small door. Behind the door I found a narrow passageway that turned to the left. At the end of it, before a large alcove containing a few steps that led to a door, a monk in cowl and sandals sat upon a three-legged stool and turned the pages of his breviary with gnarled fingers. When he lifted his eyes and looked at me, I could see that he was very old. The skullcap sat on his bald head like a patch of mud.

  “Where does this go?” I asked, indicating the door.

  “Eh?” he croaked, cupping his ear.

  “Where does this door lead to?” I shouted, bending over him. A flash of understanding lit his sunken face.

  “Nowhere, it don’t lead to nowhere… It’s a cell, Father Marfeon’s cell … our hermit.”

  “What?”

  “A cell, a cell.”

  “May I see the hermit then?” I asked. The old monk nodded.

  “Yes, this here is our hermitage.”

  I hesitated, then walked up and opened the door to a dim antechamber cluttered with all sorts of junk—dirty sacks, onion skins, empty jars, sausage rings, ashes and old papers strewn about the floor. Only the center of the room had been swept, or rather, there were a few clean places to put one’s foot. I reached the other door, stepping gingerly through the debris, and turned a heavy iron handle. Inside, there was shuffling, whispering. By the light of a single candle somewhere on the floor I saw shadowy figures scurry about, crouch in the comers, scuttle under crooked tables or cots. Someone blew out the candle and there were angry whispers and grunts in the darkness. The air was heavy with the stale smell of unwashed bodies. I beat a hasty retreat. When I passed the old monk, he lifted his eyes from the prayer book.

  “Father Marfeon
see you?” he rasped.

  “He’s sleeping,” I said, and hurried on. The voice followed me down the hall:

  “You come the first time, he’s sleeping, but the second time, then you’ll see…”

  I went back through the chapel. The funeral rites were apparently over; the casket, flags and wreaths were gone. Mass too was over. A priest stood in the dim pulpit and admonished the congregation:

  “…for it is written: And when the devil had ended all the temptation, he departed from him for a season!” The preacher’s shrill voice reverberated beneath the high-domed ceiling: “For a season it is written—and where does the devil hide for a season? In that Red Sea that courses through our veins? Or perhaps in Nature? But, O my brothers, are we not ourselves Nature, Nature without end? Does not the rustle of her trees echo in our bones? Is our human blood less salty than the waters of the sea that carve great caverns of lime and chalk, great skeletons beneath the waves? Does not the everlasting fire of the desert bum in our hearts? And are we not, in the end, a clamorous prelude to the final silence, a marriage bed to engender dust, a universe for microbes, microbes that strive to circumnavigate us? We are as unfathomable, as inscrutable as That which brought us into being, and we choke on our own enigma…”

  “You hear that?” came a whisper behind me. Out of the comer of my eye I saw the sweaty, pale face of a Corporal Brother. “Choking, yet—and that’s supposed to be a provocation sermon! He doesn’t know how to slip anything in!”

  “Seek not the key to the mystery, for surely it will never fit! Thou shalt not penetrate the impenetrable! Humble thyself!” the voice boomed.

  “Father Orfini’s finished now, I’ll call him over. He can be of use, you know—a good man to third-degree!” the pale monk hissed, burning my neck with his foul breath. Some of the worshipers began to turn around and look at us.

  “No, don’t!” I whispered. Too late—he was already making for the altar by a side passage. I tried to leave unobtrusively, but the exit was too crowded; the monk was already returning with the priest (now back in uniform), pulling him by the sleeve. Then with a conspiratorial wink he disappeared behind a column, leaving the priest and me alone in the empty chapel.

  “You wish to make confession, my son?” he asked in a melodious voice, presenting me with the stem face of an ascetic, gray at the temples, and with a gold tooth. The gold reminded me of the little old man.

  “No, that’s all right,” I said. Then a thought occurred to me, and I added:

  “I am in need of certain … information.”

  The father confessor nodded.

  “Very well, follow me.”

  Behind the altar was a low door, which led into an almost black corridor. On each side stood the robed figures of saints, their faces turned to the wall. We entered a painfully bright room with an enormous safe, a black enamel cross inlaid on its stainless steel. The priest offered me a chair and went over to a table cluttered with old papers and books. Even in uniform he looked very much a priest: the white, expressive hands like those of a concert pianist, the delicate blue veins about the forehead, the dry skin that stretched across the bones. Everything about him bespoke a stem serenity.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Do you know the man in charge of the Department of Instructions?” I asked. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

  “Major Erms? Yes, I know him.”

  “And the number of his office?”

  The priest became confused; he fingered the buttons of his uniform as if it were a cassock.

  “Did anything—” he began, but I interrupted.

  “Now Father, let’s have the number.”

  “Nine thousand one hundred twenty-nine … but I don’t understand why I—”

  “Nine thousand one hundred twenty-nine,” I repeated slowly, certain that this was one number I would not forget.

  The priest was clearly taken aback.

  “Excuse me, I… Brother Persuasion gave me to understand that—”

  “Brother Persuasion? The monk who brought you over to me? What’s your opinion of him, Father?”

  “I really don’t know what you mean,” the priest said, still standing behind his desk. “Brother Persuasion heads our Handicrafts Unit.”

  “Handicrafts?”

  “Ecclesiastical attire, vestments, pontificals, various liturgical paraphernalia, aspergers, thuribles, censers, etc.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Well, on special order … for Department S.D. I believe we made a number of bugged percolators, and I know our Gerontophile Section produces earmuffs and miscellaneous items for our suffering senior citizens, for example polygraph mittens.”

  “Polygraph mittens?”

  “The galvanic skin response, you know—records their hidden moments of excitement… Then there are microphone pillows for those who talk in their sleep, and so on. But, you couldn’t tell me…? Did Brother Persuasion … say anything about me?”

  “He spoke of various things…” I let it hang there.

  “The people in the Department?”

  “You might say…”

  “One moment, please.”

  The priest hurried to the safe and in three quick motions opened the combination lock. The steel door swung aside with a clang, revealing stacks of sealed folders in all colors. These he feverishly searched—then pounced on one. His face was covered with tiny beads of sweat.

  “Make yourself at home, I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” I yelled, jumping up. “Hand over that folder!”

  I did this on the spur of the moment.

  He clutched the folder to his chest. I looked him in the eye and grabbed an edge of it. He wouldn’t let go.

  “Nineteen,” I said slowly. A drop of sweat ran down his cheek like a tear. The folder eased itself into my hands. I opened it—it was empty.

  “My duty… I acted under orders … from high up,” the priest muttered.

  “Sixteen,” I said.

  “No! Anything but that!!”

  “Be seated, Father. You will not leave this room until you are given the proper authorization by phone. Is that understood?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “Nor will you initiate any calls yourself, Father!”

  “I won’t! I swear!”

  “Good.”

  I left and closed the door, went back through the chapel and down the spiral staircase. This time there was no guard at the entrance. In the elevator I noticed that the yellow folder taken from the priest was still in my hand.

  Room 9129 was on the ninth level, sure enough. I entered without knocking.

  One of the secretaries was knitting, the other worked on a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. I looked for a door to the chief’s office. There wasn’t any, which was odd.

  “Major Erms, Special Mission,” I announced. The secretaries acted as if they hadn’t heard me. The one who was knitting counted stitches under her breath. A code? I examined the small room more carefully: rows of bookshelves on every wall, bookshelves and file cabinets, a microphone painted like a flower and hanging above one shelf at an unusual height. Without another word, I placed my yellow folder on the desk in front of the girl with the ham sandwich. She glanced at it, chewing. Pale pink gums showed above her teeth. With the little finger of her left hand she pushed back the wax paper that held her sandwich. A secret sign? I walked along the shelves and noticed a gap between two cabinets … something white … a door. There was a door behind one of the bookshelves. I gripped the shelf and pulled hard. The files above my head swayed dangerously.

  “Sixteen … nineteen,” the knitting secretary counted in a whisper that became suddenly shrill. The shelf caught on something halfway—but I had access to the door and managed to turn the knob and squeeze through.

  4

  “So you decided to show up at last!” a young, vibrant voice greeted me. A blond officer got up from behind his mahogany desk. The room was stifling hot and he was in
his shirtsleeves. “You’re a little dirty from the wall…”

  He took out a small brush and applied it to the sleeve of my jacket as he talked.

  “I expected you yesterday. You will be able to spend the night, won’t you? My work kept me in the office all day, but at least this way I couldn’t miss you. There, now you look fine. You know, I’ve become so familiar with your case that here I am treating you like an old friend and we haven’t even been introduced! I’m Erms.”

  “And you have my instructions,” I said.

  “Why else would I be here? Coffee?”

  “Thanks.”

  He poured me a cup, threw the brush in a drawer and took a seat. The smile never left his face. He had the winsome air of a towheaded boy, though when I looked closer I saw wrinkles around those bright blue eyes—laugh lines, no doubt. His teeth were like a puppy’s, clean and sharp.

  “Okay, down to business. Your instructions. Now let’s see, where did I put them…”

  “Just don’t tell me you have to leave the room to get them,” I said with a strained smile. This sent him into such gales of laughter that the tears streamed from his eyes. He had to loosen his tie.

  “Terrific! What a clown! But I really don’t have to go anywhere to get them, they’re right here.” And he went over to a small safe, took out a thick bundle of papers and tossed it on the desk. “No use kidding you, the Old Boy gave you a tough nut to crack. It won’t be any picnic. And it’s your first, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” I admitted, then added, since he seemed such a decent guy: “You know, if I stayed around here long enough, I could become a pro at this game without actually going on a single mission. I mean, it’s in the air … you take it in, you absorb the … the…” I couldn’t find the right word.

  “The local color!” he said and again broke into loud laughter. I laughed too, feeling light and happy as I stirred my coffee. Yet there was some unpleasant association connected with this stirring, something recent. I couldn’t remember…

  “May I see my instructions?” I asked.

  “They’re all yours.”