Memoirs Found in a Bathtub Page 12

  They were in response to a question I had posed in my thoughts while waiting in the office, alone with the fat officer…

  If everything that happened in the Building was supposed to have some deeper meaning, then there was more to Prandtl’s sigh than met the eye.

  I had asked: “What do they want me to do?”

  And Prandtl handed me a piece of paper that said: “There will be no answer.”

  If there was no answer forthcoming to my questions, then everything—the Commander in Chiefs promises, the open safe, my blackmail of Father Orfini, the shoot-out in the hall, the suicides, the missions, the instructions, the secret codes—absolutely everything was a maze of blunders, idiocies and horrors, everything fell apart, nothing held together, and the Building itself became a vacuum filled exclusively with lunatics, each kept in isolation … each hallucinating its omniscience and omnipotence…

  But if these events were in fact unrelated, haphazard, thrown together any which way, having no pattern, no connection with anything else, then they were meaningless, and my visit with Prandtl was meaningless, and his lecture, and those five terrible words…

  Those words lost their broader meaning and became, as at first, only one example in a demonstration of code. Now, if they had no broader meaning, and were therefore not in answer to my unspoken question, in that case … in that case there was a Building after all, and a mystery, and everything did have a deeper meaning and I was back where I started, describing a vicious circle of thought, of thought that devoured thought.

  I glanced at the sleeping man. He breathed so quietly that if it hadn’t been for the slight movement of his shoulders, I would have thought him dead. Perhaps I too was asleep—that might explain my failure to think all this through. No, I was wide awake.

  Let us assume, for the moment, that those five words could be taken at face value, ignoring the above paradox. Where would this lead us? (Probably nowhere, but it would at least kill time.) Consider the possible usefulness of the chaos those words implied, a chaos that could be kept in check by various and devious means, turned almost into a tool. What purpose did chaos serve?

  Here I was, given a Special Mission, chosen, singled out; then, with equal eagerness, I had assumed the role of criminal, the defendant in court, with all the trappings of confession, the sobs of remorse, the pleas for mercy; or else I had draped myself in the robes of martyr and made a desperate search for interrogators, prosecutors, was acquitted and rehabilitated, then found guilty and recondemned; on one hand I had rifled desks and files to find evidence I could use against myself, and on the other hand stormed offices with all the righteous indignation of an honest citizen grievously wronged. All this I had done with great spirit, conscientiously, convinced that that was what they expected of me. The Building, however, had been designed to get at the root of things, to unearth, unmask, penetrate appearances, layers of deception—and it accomplished this through dissonance. In my case, it destroyed the harmony of defeat as well as the harmony of heroism, it led me from one rude awakening to another, jolted me, amazed me so that I would be unable to read anything in the many favors and misfortunes that rained down in turn upon my head, and then it threw me into an acid bath of chaos and calmly waited to see what would emerge, purged and purified.

  Precisely by denying me both my instructions and a warrant for my arrest, both medals and manacles, precisely by using its vast resources, its hundred corridors and hoards of desks, to give me nothing—the Building was nearing its goal…

  Yes, chaos could be useful…

  And the little old man with the gold spectacles—hadn’t he said something about an infinite variety of operational plans?

  From there it was only one step to concluding that chaos in the Building was not only not unusual, but actually the norm—more, the result of considerable effort, continual diligence. It was an artificial chaos, forged to shield the Ultimate Secret from prying eyes.

  Perhaps… I shifted my weary weight on the hard rim of the tub. My other theories also fit a lot of the facts. Odd, how almost any sufficiently complex idea seemed to apply to the Building, to explain it… Odd, and a little frightening.

  The sleeping man moved over on his back, so I could see his face. The eyelids flickered—he seemed to be reading something in his sleep, the eyeballs moved from left to right. Sweat glistened on his brow; he badly needed a shave, and was deathly pale, with a twisted smile—no, a frown, a grimace (the face was upside down from where I sat).

  I’d wait for him to wake up and say something … and somewhere in some office a bored secretary had stirred her coffee and was now getting up to file a folder of instructions, instructions that contained exactly what he would say to me when he opened his eyes, and what I would say to him, and so on—to the bitter end.

  I felt a sudden chill, either from this morbid thought or from the draft that ran across the tub, and pulled my knees up closer and buttoned the top button of my jacket.

  What difference did it make, I reasoned, tired and defeated. They’d never show me those instructions, if only to keep me from going against them, and so my future remained unknown to me, almost as if it hadn’t been written down in any ledger anywhere…

  9

  The sleeping man began to snore—not with the Admiral’s virtuosity, but in a stubborn monotone. Soon he was sawing away with a dedication worthy of a better cause. Evidently he had decided to imitate the sounds of a dying man. This unnerved me, I couldn’t concentrate any more—an attempt to divert my attention? I was tired, my bones ached. Once again I decided to leave, go somewhere, perhaps visit that old hermit—no, on second thought, it was too crowded there. I stretched, went over to the sink, put the razor in my pocket. In the mirror I saw the sleeping man, from the chest up; it was like looking at myself sound asleep after some long and wearisome journey.

  Could it be that this hadn’t been arranged? That I had found a genuine companion, a fellow sufferer, someone as lost in the Building as I was, chasing a similar mirage?

  I could tell by the sudden silence that he was beginning to wake up. He stirred slowly, with great effort, as if carefully putting away his pretense of dying, saving it for another time. The eyes flashed open, took me in (upside down), then shut for a moment, while he collected his thoughts. Finally, he lifted himself up on one elbow.

  Before he spoke, I seemed to recall something—I had seen that face before. Eyes still shut, he muttered:

  “Tailed…”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He sat up, scratched his head, blinked, looked at me, looked at the floor, then coughed and said, rubbing his wrists:

  “That cauliflower … the bastards don’t cook it right, gives you nightmares…”

  He glanced at the sink—I was in the way—he leaned around me and his eyes widened.

  “All right, where’s the razor?” he asked.

  “Here.” I pointed to my pocket.

  “Hand it over.”

  “Why?” I objected, already taking a dislike to the man. He was too arrogant. Wherever I had seen him before, I was sure it hadn’t been pleasant.

  “I brought it here, from upstairs,” I said, establishing my rights to it. He gave me a nasty look, turned his back to me and got up. He stretched and scratched his shoulders leisurely, with obvious pleasure. Then he took a brush off the shelf and started to remove the lint from his trousers.

  “Go on!” he growled, not looking at me.

  “What?”

  “Look, either talk—or get lost!”

  “Talk about what?”

  The sound of my voice stopped him. He looked up and frowned.

  “All right,” he said, and came up to me with his hand out, palm up. “Well, what are you waiting for? Scared?”

  “I’m not scared of you,” I said, giving him the razor. He weighed it in his hand and looked me over carefully.

  “Of me?” he repeated. “I guess not…”

  He hung his jacket on the doorknob, wrapped
a towel around his neck and proceeded to lather his face. Having nothing else to do, I sat on the rim of the tub and watched. He ignored me. Then I happened to notice a leather loop sticking out from under the tub. Suddenly it hit me: this was the spy with the camera! Of course! They sent him, sent him in order to … to what? We would soon see. He would make his pitch any minute now. The silence was painful. The tips of my shoes touched the floor and, as sometimes happens in an awkward position, my left leg began to dance.

  “Been here … long?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  All I could see in the mirror was a lot of lather, no face. I waited for an answer. But the razor slid from ear to chin as if I hadn’t said a thing.

  “Have you been here long?” I asked again.

  “Go on,” he said, scraping under his chin.

  “Go on?” I said, baffled. He didn’t explain, but only bent over the sink and splashed his face, splashing me in the process.

  “You’re splashing me,” I told him.

  “You don’t like it? Then get lost!”

  “I was here first.”

  An eye regarded me from behind the towel.

  “Oh?” he countered. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  He tossed the towel on the floor and reached for his jacket, saying:

  “Supper over?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No meat today,” he mumbled to himself, straightening Ms clothes. “If only they’d give us French fries for a change. But no, it’s mashed potatoes, it’s always mashed potatoes. Coming out of my ears…”

  He cast a quick glance at me.

  “Are you going to start or not? I’m about ready to leave.”

  “Start what?”

  “Don’t play innocent. That’s old hat.”

  “You’re the one who’s playing innocent.”

  “Me?” He seemed surprised. “How do you figure that?”

  “You know how.”

  “We could go on this way forever,” he said impatiently, then took another close look at me. There was absolutely no doubt: he was the one I had seen photographing the secret documents in the open safe.

  “In mufti, eh?” he said with a grin.

  “What do you mean?”

  He came up very close and looked at my dancing leg. It interested him.

  “A stool pigeon,” he decided at last.

  “Who?”

  “You.”

  “Me? Look, why don’t you talk sense? I’m not in mufti and I’m no stool pigeon!”

  “Oh? Then what are you doing here? Just happened by?”

  “No, I didn’t just happen by!”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “You’re the one who wants something.”

  “Me?”

  He paced the bathroom floor from one end to the other, hands in his pockets. Then he stopped at the door and said:

  “All right, so I made a mistake. And you’re not a decoder?”

  “No.”

  “Not a forty?”

  “What’s that?”

  He let out a long, low whistle.

  “All right. I don’t believe you, but we’ll let that pass. So you say you’re one of them mission people?”

  I hesitated.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I began. “If you’re talking about my Mission…”

  “Ha,” he said. “You got your instructions?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Lost them?”

  “Yes. Perhaps you know—”

  “Hold on.”

  He bent down, reached under the tub and pulled out a camera in a large leather case. Then he sat on the toilet, opened the camera and took out a package of cookies.

  “Missed supper,” he explained, his mouth full and dropping crumbs. “So you want to know what’s going on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there a priest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lily white?”

  “What?”

  “Haven’t gotten there yet, eh? All right. Looks like an eighty.”

  And he stared at my leg, which was still shaking, and calculated something.

  You saw the old man,” he concluded. “And the fat one too, eh? What a slob! You don’t have to say a word, it’s written all over your face. And the leg, that’s from the old man.”

  He held out a cookie.

  “Hungry?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He shifted his weight on the toilet, made himself comfortable.

  “You got a good look, didn’t you?” he said sadly. “Quarts of warts and moles like coals, scroffles like waffles, and lumps and lumps, a bumper crop all right—and there you stand, spick-and-span, pearls before swine, a bull in a china shop! He whispers in your shell-like ear, a voice from the burning bush, and there you go, figuring, wriggling, and you can’t make a thing out of it nohow. Still a test? Going west? House arrest?”

  “Excuse me,” I said, “but I don’t—”

  “Still a test,” he decided. “But you’re sharp, you get by! What a guy! Riding high! Too young to die! And did they stick you with pins in your sleep?”

  “No. But why are you—”

  “Don’t interrupt. Artificial flies in your coffee?”

  “Yes!”

  I had no idea where all this was leading; yet it did make some sense, and clearly had to do with me.

  “Were you talking about the Admiral just then?” I asked.

  “No, apple strudel… The old boy will outlive us both, you know. He was exactly the same way back when you couldn’t get a towel for love or money—and a razor, that was impossible… Coffee too… And they took care of you without all these rights and grounds today—good old cloak-and-dagger, everything hush-hush, a knock at the door and a visit to the Cellar Section, a little slapping around, a little boot in the kisser, a tooth or two, sign here and you’re through. The most they do now is have an occasional shoot-out”

  “Yes! In the hall! But why?”

  “A three-timer. Tried to defect, got confused. They had to make an example of him. That’s why.”

  Just an ordinary run-of-the-mill spy! It was obvious, the way he talked. But what did he want of me? Apparently giving up his supper to have a chat… I had to be on my guard!

  “On your guard, eh?” he snapped and looked me in the eye. “Don’t be so surprised, I’m an old hand at this game, run-of-the-mill or not. You think your instructions are yours? Wrong! One in a series, that’s all … the flies in the coffee, and all the rest of it… Only the coffee hasn’t changed…”

  Suddenly he looked very old and tired, Ms eyes fixed on the gleaming white door.

  “Can’t you speak more clearly?” I asked.

  “How could it be any clearer?” he replied, surprised.

  “But what does it all really mean? And you—what are you trying to—”

  “Easy, relax. Why worry over spilt milk? Am I a spot to be removed? A blot to be erased? A stain to be rubbed out? And do we not bleed? But enough, ’tis the end.”

  “The end of what?”

  “Everything. In the good old days, you’d sniff a rose, your heart would skip a beat: bugged or not? And goose flesh—is your goose cooked or not? Shivers down your spine—cold feet? Every terror had a terror then… Nowadays, if you tremble, it’s only out of habit … nothing but window dressing now.”

  “What are you getting at? Why a rose, why cold feet? You mean—my leg? And what is that supposed to mean? And—what are you doing here, anyway?”

  “He wants to know what I’m doing here…” He leaned over and pointed to his own face. “Look what they’ve done to me! Those hordes of idiot spies, the paperwork, the waiting in offices, all that monkey business—ruined me!”

  “Why the camera?” I asked, throwing all caution to the winds.

  “The camera? You don’t know?”

  “You were taking pictures…”

  “Of course.”

  “In the safe…�
�� I lowered my voice to a whisper, still hoping he might deny it. But he nodded gravely.

  “That goes without saying. Though it was quite harmless. I only did it to keep my hand in. Otherwise you get rusty, the gray matter rots, the old giblets cake up—every so often I just have to go and click the shutter a few times or I’ll go mad.”

  “Don’t give me that!” I said, suddenly impatient. “You were photographing secret documents! I saw you! Not that I have any intention of making use of this information—it’s none of my business. What I don’t understand is how you can just sit there.”

  “Why not?”

  “They might be after you, you ought to hide!”

  “Where?” he asked. The weariness in his voice gave me the shivers.

  “Well, there’s always … there.”

  I was putting myself in his hands. My heart hammered wildly. Now surely that boredom would fall from his face like a mask. I was urging him to escape—had I gone mad?—why, he could be an agent provocateur…

  “There?” he muttered. “There’s no there. Here, there—no difference. I took the pictures to keep my hand in, that’s all. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

  “Doesn’t matter? Can’t you speak more plainly?”

  “Plainly or not, it all works out the same. You’re not far enough along to understand. And even if you knew your p’s and q’s, you’d never believe them. I know what you’re thinking: he’s a spy, provocateur, sent by them, out to get me, blackmail, a regular snake, pretending to be sick of it all, lackaday and alas, all woebegone, baring his soul, run-down by the old run-around, the poor dear, but it’s all a front, means something else—right? And now you’re thinking, he says he’s a spy to make me think he’s being honest. But of course ‘being honest’ means something else to them, so when he says he’s a spy to show me he’s ‘being honest,’ then we know where we stand, don’t we? Or do we? And now you don’t believe a word I’m saying! Right?”

  I said nothing.

  “You’ll see. You won’t be spared a thing. Still want to know what’s what, eh?”

  He waited for my answer.

  “I do!” I said, though I really didn’t believe a word he was saying.