I was silent.
“You refuse?” he asked, and a tear rolled down his cheek.
I sat there, my leg still dancing, and I didn’t see or hear him any longer. Once again I was surrounded by those endless rows of white corridors and white doors, robbed of everything that could ever be mine. It was with the lifeless light of the labyrinth before me that I said:
“I’ll cooperate.”
His face lit up. He turned away and dabbed his forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief.
“Now you wonder if I’ll really betray you,” he said at last. “It can’t be helped. All promises, vows and oaths are worthless here, so I’ll only say this: not today. Also, no recognition signals: they wouldn’t help. Our weapon will be openness—we’ll make no secret of our conspiracy and they’ll never believe us. Now I’ll go and denounce you to my superior. Meanwhile, act natural, do whatever you would normally do.”
“I should go to the Registry then?”
“Would you otherwise?”
“I guess not.”
“Then don’t. Get some rest instead, you’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, after dinner, between the two marble caryatids near the elevator on the seventh level, Two will be waiting for you.”
“Two?”
“That’s me. Our code names.”
“And I’m One?”
“Right. I’d better leave now. We shouldn’t be seen together—it’ll look suspicious.”
“Wait! What should I say if they interrogate me before we meet again?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Can I betray you?”
“Of course. They already know about our conspiracy—the false one, that is, not the true one. As long as you don’t begin to—”
He broke off.
“And you too.”
“And me too, yes. It’s best not to think too much. Just remember: this way we save one another, we redeem ourselves, even if we perish. Farewell.”
He left quickly, stirring the air with his departure—a pleasant breeze.
He was off to denounce me—ostensibly. But how did I know it was only ostensibly? Either way, I didn’t care. I got up. I had something to say but there was no one around to listen. I coughed deliberately, to hear myself. But the room had no echo. I peeked into the next room—a table and a tape recorder, its spools slowly turning. I took them off, tore the tape into little pieces and stuffed my pockets with them, then headed for the bathroom.
13
The wailing in the pipes woke me up. I opened my eyes and noticed for the first time that the bathroom ceiling had a bas-relief: a scene from paradise. There was Adam and Eve playing hide-and-seek among the trees, and the serpent lurking on a branch, apparently debating whether or not to take a bite out of Eve’s plump behind, and there was an angel on a cloud busily writing a denunciation—exactly as Dolt had described it. Dolt! I sat up, wide awake, and realized I was freezing—the towel wrapped around my naked body was no protection against the chill of that tiled floor—I was stiff as a corpse. Only a long, hot bath brought me back to life. Then I looked myself over in the mirror. It was no surprise to find an old man looking back at me. Yesterday had lasted forever, drained me, taken a lifetime … if only that idiotic song wouldn’t plague me…
Hey, the Building, hey!
What makes the Building stay?
The Antibuilding makes it stay!
Hey!
I was singing it even now—I could tell—my lips moved in the mirror! Come to think of it, though, I hadn’t really aged. Merely a bad hangover. I must have been dead drunk to have accepted Father Orfini’s proposition. A conspiracy—good Lord! And a conspiracy of two!
I sang in the empty bathroom—listened—no one was joining in. I was accustomed to eating at odd hours—on the other hand, I wasn’t hungry after last night (night?)—so I gargled a little and left.
At the elevator I realized I wasn’t my old self—I mean, where was I going anyway? Peace and quiet, that’s what I needed. The smartest thing would be to join a crowd and follow it to some big meeting or assembly. There I could collect my thoughts without standing out—and get away from the bathroom and this hateful isolation!
But there was no crowd, only an occasional officer—and one can’t follow an occasional officer very well. I wandered up and down the fifth level, then the sixth, took an elevator to the eighth where I seemed to recall the doors along one corridor, indicating the presence of a large hall on the other side. Today the corridor was empty. I waited around for a while. No one showed up. I went in.
The anteroom of a large museum. Along the highly polished parquet stood a row of long showcases that blazed light in the general gloom. The lane between them ended in a turn, but the reflection on the dark walls there indicated more of the same around the turn. On display were hands—hands severed at the wrist, often clasped in pairs on their glass shelves, very true-to-life hands, too true-to-life—not only was the skin dull and the fingernails shiny, but there were even little hairs on the backs. Frozen in an incredible number of poses, they seemed caught forever in roles of a vast drama, a theater under glass. I decided to go through the entire collection. Why not? I had plenty of time to kill. I passed: the hands of a saint (praying) and the hands of a sinner (dealing cards); fists of anger, fists of despair, and triumphant fists; then challenging hands and hands of denial; senile fingers giving a shaky blessing, senile fingers begging for bread; then some indecent gestures; over here, the shy blossoming of sweet innocence in the shadow of doom, and over there, a mother’s relentless concern. I followed the turn and walked on, then stopped to take in one particularly heartwarming scene—enacted by the most eloquent gesture imaginable—but found it a bit too cloying and so moved on. The connoisseur awoke within me. Now I could appraise an expression at a glance—this was shallow, that a trifle overdone, and so on—and soon grew weary and bored, began looking for more complex, more subtle presentations, and quickly found that the creators of this exhibit had the very same idea—around the next turn, the gestures were more and more controlled, laconic, enigmatic … ambiguous…
No waving of fists here, no rude insistence—the maudlin twist of fingers breathed foul play, for that rosy enclosure shielded not a bright (imaginary) candle but, crouched furtively there in the palm, the little finger, the pinkie, and where did the pinkie point? My interest was rekindled. I savored, like vintage wine, the way one finger suddenly side-stepped the monastic solemnity of its fellows and signaled to someone behind my back—deceit and deception indeed permeated the digital air, that patted and pointed space from shelf to shelf, for one gesture negated another nearby or across the way, and a forest of fingers clamored at the glass or gathered in the shadows to connive among many thumbs… Here a plump knuckle frolicked and cut capers, and there were handsprings, handstands, but suddenly in the midst of their innocent abandon a hangnail passed across a wrist, all thumbs turned down, and accusingly they pointed—they pointed—they pointed at me!!
I started to run—hundreds of hands, high and low against the glass like a swarm of spiders or white, twisted worms rushing by—“But why so many?” I thought—“What can it mean—can it mean—what kind of museum—?—I’d better leave—”
Someone came running out of the darkness straight at me, the shadows flashing across his face, the mouth open in a voiceless scream and the eyes blank—but I was able to stop at the last minute, and reached out and touched the cold, smooth surface of—a mirror.
I stood before it, and behind me in the dark, blurry, many-aquariumed depths, in the silent, lifeless sea of a thousand groping signs, revolting mimes, there hung the numb and bloody hands of madness. I pressed my forehead to the cold glass, afraid to look.
The mirror moved, gave way, opened—the surface of a door—and I was in a tiny room, practically a closet. A little man, a very little man, sat behind a table in a trench coat and, bending over (nearsighted?), filed his nails.
“Have a seat,” he said, not looking up.
“Chair’s in the comer. Remove the towel first. Have trouble seeing? It’ll pass. Wait a while.”
“I’m in a hurry,” I said. “How do I get out of here?”
“In a hurry? Better take a seat, catch your breath. There’s pen and paper here.”
“What?”
He filed his nails in a fury.
“Go ahead, I won’t bother you.”
“I have no intention of writing anything. How do I get out of here?”
“You have no intention?”
He stopped in mid-file and gave me a watery look. I’d seen him before, though I hadn’t really—red hair, thin mustache, hardly any chin, wrinkled jowls, as if there were walnuts stored inside.
“Then I’ll write,” he offered, returning to his nails, “and all you have to do is sign it.”
“Sign what?”
“A little confession.”
“So that’s your game!” I thought, careful not to clench my teeth—clenching my teeth could give me away.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said stiffly.
“Ah? Surely you haven’t forgotten your little party?…”
I said nothing. He blew on his nails, rubbed them on the lapel of his coat, looked them over carefully, then pulled a thick, black volume out of a drawer, opened it and read:
“Whosoever disseminates, circulates, advocates, or in any way promulgates and propagates the notion that the Antibuilding does not exist, is subject under Paragraph Two to immediate exoclasis—without appeal.” He smiled coaxingly. “Well?”
“I’m innocent.”
“Of course you’re innocent! Why, you were only sipping cognac and listening. A man can’t help listening, can he? We weren’t born with ear flaps, were we? Unfortunately, the law is not so understanding…”
He opened the book to another page.
“Whosoever witnesses or learns of an offense as specified under Paragraph N Section N and fails to report it to the appropriate division within N hours of its perpetration is held liable and subject to summary epistoclasis—unless the Court finds mitigating circumstances as outlined under Paragraph n, small n.”
He put the volume away and watched me with his watery eyes for some time, then moved his lips:
“A little confession?”
I shook my head.
“Well then,” he coaxed, not discouraged, “a wee bit of a confession?”
“I have nothing to confess.”
“An infinitesimal confession?”
“No!” I yelled, furious. He blinked like a startled bird. “No?”
“No.”
“Not even yes?”
“No.”
“Look, I’ll help you. For example: ‘present at a party thrown by Professors X, Y and Z on such and such a day and hour et cetera and so on, I was made an unwilling witness of this, that, and the other.’—Well?”
“I refuse to make any such report.”
He stared at me with the wide, round eyes of a chicken.
“Am I under arrest?” I asked.
“Troublemaker,” he said and blinked again. “Let’s try something else, shall we? Here boy! Fetch! Roll over! Confess!”
“Stop it!”
“Or free association. Spy? Price? Conspire? Piracy? Perspire! Conspiracy!”
I was silent.
“Still no?”
He jumped up on the table, as if ready to hurl himself at me.
“Perhaps this will refresh the Count’s memory!”
And he held out a round box full of small black buttons.
“Oh,” I gasped. He jumped down and made a note of it, mumbling to himself: “Admits he knows Orfini…”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Oh?” he said with a wink. “Just O then? O as in zero, naught? Nothing more? A poor, homeless O? Come now, let’s give it a friend, a nice little r … f… Can’t you guess? A man of the cloth… Cross and double-cross…”
“No,” I said.
“No O,” he added. “Oh No.”
He was clearly enjoying himself. I decided to maintain a stony silence.
“Or how about a song?” he suggested. “ ‘Rub-a-dub-dub, two men in a tub…’ No? Do you know this one?—‘Hey, the Building, hey!’ ”
He waited.
“A tough nut to crack,” he said at last, inspecting the black buttons. “Tough and rough and full of bluff. Wants a Grand Inquisitor—Torquemada—Pontius Pilate. Ecce homo! What a shame! We’re fresh out of crosses around here—no nails, no thorns, no spear in the side—sorry! Only the boss gets a little cross…”
He took to filing his nails again, and after a while grumbled:
“Please leave.”
“I can go?” I asked, amazed.
He ignored me. I looked around for the door—there it was, and it was even open. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? At the doorway I looked back—he was completely absorbed in his nails. Outside was a large, cold corridor. After walking some distance, I became aware of something heavy at my sides, attached and swinging like buckets of water. I stopped and looked down—my hands, incredibly swollen and dripping sweat—“Oh,” I thought. But why Oh? Why not Ah? I didn’t have to oh, I could have ahhed—ah, what a bastard I was! A regular bastard—but why regular—regulation—when I could be an uncommon bastard, bastard with a capital B, B as in bomb and boom?!
Door, elevator, corridor, door, elevator again, sweetly descending and how nice it is when old friends get together for a little third degree. I took a deep breath. Relief. Peace. No conspiracy, not a trace.
I was a Bastard, proud but still a little bashful.
And out the elevator—which level this? It mattered not. Take any door and turn the knob—
A pink room with plaster pilasters, paintings on the walls, flat Rembrandt-brown portraits in tulle and lace, and seated beneath the largest—a pretty girl, sweet sixteen and scared. I waited for her to speak—she didn’t—not bad—not bad—a bright face, golden bangs, the dark violet eyes of a distrusting child, full red lips, a schoolgirl’s dress with short sleeves and the nipples poking through, defiant. And the legs, the pink heels—the sandals had slipped off beneath my gaze—and those helpless little hands! “Ah,” I thought, “so white…” White? Wait! Ah! Lily white—the spy in the bathroom—on the agenda! The doctor, the plates, and now lily white…
She looked at me unblinking with her violet eyes, and I looked at her naked neck, so naked beneath that dark painting—a song in the night—not a bad metaphor either—I took a step toward her, a villainous step, I stabbed her with my eyes, and the quiescence of her flesh filled me with exquisite terror as I took another step and watched each nipple ticktock—ticktock—ticktock in time with the hammering heart. A frozen moment: The Rake’s Progress.
Another step—the knees touched—her head went back, seeking sanctuary in its mass of golden hair. I bent over. A slight tremble of the lips—the arms lay helpless—now I should deflower her—she expected no less—what else could I do under the circumstances? But perhaps she wasn’t really a little girl to be deflowered, perhaps she was the block where I would have to lay my head and make my last confession and await the ax. Why was she here, anyway?
“On the other hand,” I thought, peering into her golden lashes, “I’m here too and I’m innocent, so why shouldn’t she be innocent?” Was there no end to this analyzing, agonizing, temporizing? A man could go mad! Rape and be done with it!
Easy to say, not so easy to put into operation. A kiss was the obvious place to start—our breaths already mingled—but a kiss as a prelude to defloration—it wasn’t right, wasn’t right because, even in the most contrived and underhanded kiss lay something—something right—too right. A kiss was a sign, a symbol, an emblem, an allegory, and I was through with such games—I wanted to trample on her lily whiteness unequivocally, without qualification or reservation—for what is an outrage if it isn’t an outrage?
Forget the kiss then—and my hovering over her maiden modesty was false—
a pose—“Better carry her off in my arms,” I decided, stepping back—a serious mistake—it looked too much like a retreat, vacillation—and where could I take her? There was only the armchair—other than the hard floor—and picking her up and throwing her back in the same chair would be ridiculous—an outrage cannot be ridiculous and be an outrage.
Then seize her with shameless brutality! The armchair was too low—so I kneeled—another mistake! This was a posture of humility, obedience—the noble knight requesting his lady’s favor before the fray. One could not violate one on bended knee—and violate I had to, and quickly, before she started to bawl—then we would have a sniveling brat on our hands and no more lily white!
Up her skirt, then? A ticklish business—what if she starts giggling—not as a virgin—but because it tickles? No lily white, no outrage—only a tickle and a giggle—? God in heaven!!
This was his work—that interrogator—he planted her here—ex ungue leonem—in that case, no going up her skirt, nothing underhanded, undercover—but bold, head-on action—bull by the horns—a frontal kiss, an all-out blitz-kiss—lightning and thunder, fire and brimstone, eye to eye and tooth to tooth! Passion!! Lust!! I swooped down—something was wrong—her mouth was full—white—a whiff of—of—what? Cheese! Cream cheese!!
Slowly, I got to my feet and brushed off my knees. That was that. Lily white—snow white—cream cheese—
On my way out I looked back: relieved, she resumed her chewing, brought her sandwich out of hiding. She hid it so it would be easier for me to—God in heaven!
I shut the door behind me and went quietly on my way, thinking of bastards. A shot rang out—nearby. I turned around, not in the mood for trouble—I had enough of my own—when I noticed three officers standing in front of a door with a cushion. I understood.
There were essentially two kinds of shooting. One, usually after breakfast, came in a deafening barrage—gunfire, screams, curses, ricocheting bullets, falling plaster. Those corridor battles were executed in great haste, ending with the coded groans of the dying and bells signifying the approach of the theologicals. On occasion, when elevator doors would accidentally open, you might see a corpse or two come tumbling down the empty shaft from some upper level—that’s how they got rid of them. But this was a single shot—and they were usually preceded by a small procession, no more than two or three officers carrying a revolver on a velvet cushion. They would enter an office, return without the revolver and wait at the door—a high-ranking officer got tassels on his cushion. Then the body would be removed during lunch, when no one was around to gawk.
Memoirs Found in a Bathtub Page 18
