Memoirs Found in a Bathtub

by Stanisław Lem

  Fifteen minutes before my rendezvous with the Judas priest. But why bother now? I had to think. Our conspiracy was not only known and tolerated, but ordered—the false conspiracy, that is. But beneath the falsehood we tried to build the truth. If I didn’t show up, it would look like I was afraid—and they might guess that I was afraid—so I had to go.

  My sense of shame began to pass. I paced a quiet corridor between two bathrooms. I wanted so desperately to justify myself—I hit upon a thought, a hopelessly naïve but tempting thought—could this be a dream, an unusually persistent and perverse dream? Then even if I couldn’t wake up at once (the dream seemed too powerful for that), at least I would know, from now until it ended, that I wasn’t responsible. I stopped in front of a white wall, looked around to see that no one was coming, and focused my will on it—to soften it—such things usually work in dreams, even the worst nightmares. But it didn’t work—the wall was as hard as ever. Another possibility—I was in someone else’s dream—in which case, of course, the dreamer would have more control over the wall than I…

  Impossible to prove, either way. I went back to the main corridor and took an elevator up to meet the priest. Why that lily white? Apparently to show me that even a Bastard couldn’t—couldn’t defy the Building. I could almost see that little interrogator now, wagging his finger at me in playful reproach—playful, like dead men dancing on air at the scaffold—

  The elevator went up and up, the numbers jumped, the contacts clicked, the milky light dimmed and brightened, and suddenly I saw him—really saw him—through the crack in the door as the elevator climbed. He stood there in his trench coat, lost in thought—did he see me or not?

  The elevator was slowing down. Through the crack I saw a pair of polished shoes, then a black coat, a row of buttons—a cassock! The priest! He was waiting for me, right at the door! The elevator jerked to a stop—but I pressed a button and sent it back down—not that I suspected treachery—I didn’t suspect treachery—but the pleasant motion of descending made me feel secure. Again the contacts clicked, the milky light brightened and dimmed—my small, cozy room was falling softly through the Building—at the bottom I pushed a button and went up again…

  Levels passed, blank walls, floors, a pair of legs, a ceiling, another floor—and again the little interrogator In the trench coat waiting patiently for an elevator—and more walls, a curtain of stone lowered over the scene…

  I held my breath—the eighth level was next, and the priest again, feet first, still waiting for me—so down again—the interrogator again—I watched them carefully from my hiding place, one at a time, a biologist taking samples.

  Each, one at a time, stood casually, concertedly unconcerned—but I, able to jump from level to level and face to face, could see—to my horror—the composite: the interrogator’s upper lip and the priest’s lower lip made a smile, a smile spread over several levels—yet neither, singly, smiled—it was the Building that smiled! At the bottom I jumped out and ran off, followed only by an angry buzzing—they were buzzing for the elevator on all the levels now—but I was far away and free of them—

  So the priest did betray me, as I expected—that required some thought—but—but wasn’t this the bottom level?

  Somewhere—nearby—was the legendary Gate—an exit from the Building.

  Everything was different here, very different. I wasn’t walking down a corridor now but through a high and spacious hall—columns on every side, footsteps in the distance—receding—a crowd would have been more comfortable—I felt terribly conspicuous, particularly since I intended to escape. Escape was the only thing left. Why hadn’t I escaped before? Escaped instead of struggling with the Mission, the instructions—the false instructions—and the false conspiracy which turned out to be genuinely false. Why? Fear? I did fear the guards—they might question me, demand to see my pass—but I hadn’t even considered the possibility of escape. Why? Because I had nowhere to go, nothing to return to? Because the Building could reach me anywhere? Or was it because, in spite of all the torment I’d endured—against, entirely against, my better knowledge—I still held on to my faith—like a last hope, a hope against hope—in that accursed, that thrice accursed Mission of mine??

  There was the Gate up ahead. Open and—God in heaven!—unguarded! Between two towering pillars at the end of a mighty hall—the nave of a great cathedral—dead silence, not even an who—and then I saw him.

  This was the second guard I’d seen in the Building. Like the first, the one who guarded a death, he was stiff and straight, had white gloves and a gun, denying his own existence with that lifeless stare—not a person, but an object of the Building.

  The Gate was ajar, streaming white light—if I ran for it, would he shoot? Let him shoot! No more deliberations, no more fears and hopes—both deceiving—and no more honor or dishonor—loyalty, treachery—no more!!

  I walked up to the guard. He looked through me—as if I weren’t there—and now the door—and the sunlight!

  Six steps to the Gate. I stopped.

  The spy in the bathroom was waiting for me. I promised him I’d come. Of course, he was as much a Judas as the rest, he made no secret of it. Yet how can one betray a traitor?

  He had warned me about the doctor, the plate, the girl—he knew. In that case, he knew I would escape, that I would never be coming back. Then how could he ask me to come back, make me promise to come back? How could he count on it? What did he know?

  I had to take care of this unfinished business first. Then my escape would be more than an escape—it would be a challenge, a challenge to the Building itself, for though I could be as deceitful and as false as It, instead I would be forgiving, virtuous, magnanimous, beneficent…

  I turned around, passed the rigid guard again, went back through the hall to the elevator—this one was a luxury model, all in red—the mechanism hummed sweetly as I pushed the button and we lifted up, contacts clicking, and sailed into the many-leveled space of the Building.

  The corridor, an old friend, white and shining with its long rows of doors, led me past officers with briefcases, officers without briefcases, gray officers, thin officers, and that last officer just before the bathroom, fat and jolly—panting beneath his large stack of papers as he hurried by—

  I shut the door behind me. The place seemed empty—except for a steady tapping, persistent and distinct, and disturbing in the silence. A faucet dripping.

  I sighed, took a few steps in, was about to call out for him—and froze.

  He was lying in the tub, the tub was full, he was naked and his throat was slit, like a pig. The hair was plastered down like a helmet, silver on the sides, the head was turned away and faced the wall, and the face was underwater, A fist still gripped the razor. Blood trickled from that hideous wound and mixed with the water in dark whorls and spirals.

  I came closer. The face was still hidden from view, as if he had shied away at the last moment, or didn’t want to look at the razor. Or was hiding from the moment when I would find him.

  He had to do it, of course. This was absolutely the only way to convince me that he hadn’t lied. Words, entreaties, threats wouldn’t have helped. He was presenting me with the one irrefutable proof.

  I looked around. The clothes lay under the sink, carefully folded. Apparently he hadn’t wished to bloody them. Had he left some sign, some message, a last will and testament, or a warning—anything written—I would have my doubts again. This he knew, and so left only a naked body, as if to say by the very nakedness of death that not everything was false, that there was, in the final analysis, something absolute and unmistakable, something that no amount of subterfuge could ever alter.

  He died, then, for my sake—and so doing, saved himself.

  Cautiously, I leaned over the tub. Why had he turned away at the crucial moment? Large drops gathered at the mouth of the faucet and hit the red water in shuddering slaps. I had to make sure. I tried to lift him by the shoulders—he rolled like a log, roll
ed face up, water streaming off in tears, droplets trembling on his bristly chin. I had to make sure. The razor? I couldn’t pry it from his icy fist. Why not? Shouldn’t the fingers loosen when the heart has beaten its last? Why wouldn’t he let go? And the tears, why were they false? Why did he lie in precisely that position? Why did he hide his face? And why—why did the pipes whine and shriek and sing—?

  “Give me the razor!” I screamed. “Traitor! Bastard! Give me the razor!!”