Memoirs Found in a Bathtub Page 9

  There was no room 1593. It would have had to have been on the first level, and the last door at the very end of the corridor was 1591. I tried several different rooms, wherever there was a “Secret,” “Top Secret,” or “Headquarters.” I even looked for the office of my Commander in Chief. Nothing. Perhaps they’d changed the signs or the numbers. The papers were growing limp in my sweaty hands. I hadn’t had a thing to eat since yesterday and was faint with hunger. My face itched, I needed a shave. After considerable wandering around, I took to questioning the elevator men. The one with the artificial leg told me room 1591 wasn’t “on the list.” You had to call first. After another four hours (twice I managed to use a phone in some empty room, but Information was busy), the traffic in the halls increased, everyone was heading for the cafeteria. I joined the crowd. Today it was macaroni and cheese—terrible, but it put off the moment when I would have to set forth again. I thought about Major Erms—if he failed me, I had nothing left. Odd, how my confessions and self-accusations hadn’t been accepted. But I wasn’t surprised. Nothing seemed to surprise me any more. My hands covered with grease and my face in a cold sweat, I returned to my bathroom, folded a towel for a pillow and lay down by the tub. Almost instantly I was seized with a nameless, irrational fear, a fear so powerful that I began to shiver on the tiled floor. It was no use—I got up, aching all over, sat on the rim of the tub and tried to think through what had happened and guess what lay in store. The folder, the book, the manuscript on angels lay at my feet. I tried to think, but couldn’t. I paced the bathroom floor, turned the faucets on and watched the water, turned them off slowly to see exactly at what point the whining in the pipes started, then I made faces at myself in the mirror, I even cried a little, then sat on the rim of the tub again, my head in my hands. Hours passed. Was this all still a test? Could my misreading of the room number have been foreseen, even intentionally arranged? The old librarian had led me to the section on physical torture… Wait a minute, torture—torture—torte! Torte was a kind of cake, wasn’t it? Yes, a kind of cake… Ah, how devious they were! Did they mean to tell me that—that I would be tortured? The torture of waiting. Then there was a plan here, a plan to push me to the limit, to test my fiber, my endurance for the Mission, that “highly dangerous” Mission. Then I was still in favor, still singled out? In that case, everything would be all right; I had only to maintain an air of indifference, passivity. Yes, the receptionist had deliberately ignored me, and Information had been inaccessible by design. Comforted by that thought, I washed my face and went out to find Major Erms. Outside the Department of Instructions I saw an unusually large number of janitors polishing the floor. They wore brand-new overalls and didn’t seem to pay too much attention to their work. They were looking around instead. All were squat, solidly built, with broad shoulders; all wore caps a size too small. They could have passed for brothers. Each one nudged the next and muttered something.

  Several officers came up in full dress, sabers at their side. They asked to see the janitors’ papers, the janitors asked to see their papers. Somehow I was overlooked. Obviously a security precaution—something was up! I waited around, curious. Also, I was in no particular hurry to see Major Erms. Then, suddenly, a bugle blared, everyone rushed to stand in place, they lined up at attention, the elevator opened, two adjutants in silver braid stood guard.

  “The Admiral! The Admiral!” the news went around. The officers and janitors fell into formation and saluted. My heart pounded with excitement; now I would get to see a high-ranking dignitary. From an elevator that had the most elegant interior (the walls were in cut velvet and decorated with maps, portraits and heraldry), a little old man stepped out, his uniform blazing with gold. He was short and gray, had liver spots and limped a little. He surveyed his men and without the least effort (you could see he was a professional) bellowed:

  “At ease!”

  The Admiral walked up and down the column of men, dissatisfied, suspicious—and stopped in front of me. Then I realized I was the only civilian there. My first impulse was to fall at his feet, confess everything, beg for mercy—but I stood there instead, looking as loyal as I possibly could. He eyed me fiercely, like a warrior, jangled his medals, then barked:

  “Civilian?”

  “Yes, sir! Civilian, sir!”

  “In the Service?”

  “Yes, sir! In the Ser—”

  “Wife? Children?”

  “Beg to report, sir—”

  “H’m,” he said with a paternal smile. He mulled something over, frowned, absently fingered the plump wart under his nose. I watched his liver spots and waited.

  “An undercover man,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “An undercover man, good. Follow me.”

  My heart in my mouth, I stepped out of the column and followed the Admiral, painfully aware of the whispering behind my back. We marched down the corridor, and at each department we passed, officers jumped out and saluted. There was the Department of Promotion and Demotion, the Exhumation and Fumigation Hall, the Debilitation and Rehabilitation Section. The last door was marked “Degrading.” Here the Admiral stopped, and the chief of that department leaped out and snapped to attention.

  “H’m?” asked the Admiral in a confidential tone.

  “Counterdecoration, sir.”

  And he whispered the exact proceedings of the ceremony. All I caught was: “…off … humiliation … without … drummed out … awful…”

  “H’m!” said the Admiral. Sternly, he adjusted his medals and stepped across the threshold of the Degrading Department, stopped, turned to me and snapped, “You! Undercover man! Follow me!”

  The room was huge, splendid in a funereal way—luxurious black drapes, heavy antique mirrors suspended from the ceiling and increasing the gloom with their cloudy surfaces, and in the comers large pieces of furniture resembling catafalques. In the middle of the room, surrounded by these lifeless spectators of the forthcoming counterdecoration ceremony, five officers stood at attention on a magnificent carpet featuring snakes and Judases; they were in full regalia—aiguillettes and epaulettes, insignia and crests, sabers at their sides. Deathly pale, they stiffened at the Admiral’s entrance—their medals sparkled, their tassels trembled—that was the only sign of life. The Admiral looked them over carefully, then stopped in front of one officer and hurled the word:

  “Disgrace!”

  He paused, as if something wasn’t quite right, and gave me a sign to switch off the overhead lights. The room was now fairly dark; the mirrors had a ghostly aspect to them. But still the Admiral wasn’t satisfied. He stepped back until the dim light caught the silver in his hair. Then he took a deep breath.

  “Disgrace!!” he roared in their faces. “Disgrace!!!” Then he paused, uncertain whether the first “Disgrace” should count or not. Just then, a halo of light played about his medals—a good effect—so he decided to continue. “Stain! On your honor! Blot! On your record! Shame! Traitors! Turncoats!”

  Now he was warming up, getting the feel of it. “Never!” he thundered, this time with more dignity. “I will not permit! You dared! From this time on! I’ll break you!!”

  That, I thought, would be the end of it. But no, he was only just beginning. He went up to the first officer, stood on his toes and tore at one of the jeweled medals that decorated the officer’s chest. It came off like a ripe pear. Now there was no turning back. He began ripping everything off, ripping wildly, with complete abandon, like someone tearing the possessions off a corpse on a battlefield—aiguillettes, crests, tassels, whatever he could reach and grab. Then to the second officer, like a beast of prey, ripping and tearing—the seams came apart easily. They must have tailors to do that specially, I thought. Honors, decorations, medals rained and flashed on the carpet. The Admiral ground them under his heel. The five officers stood passively under this onslaught, their pale faces reflected and multiplied in the dim mirrors—as were their tom insignia and shredded uniforms. The old man walked up and down this avenue of shame, the
n leaned against me for a moment to catch his breath, then returned—to slap the men in the face. Then, their swords: he pulled them from their scabbards, one by one, and handed them to me to break across my knee. The fact that I was a civilian made the humiliation that much greater, of course. The ceremony over, we left the darkened Degrading Department, passed through Decoration Hall, also full of suspended mirrors, and came to a highly ornate door. An aide opened it for us.

  The Admiral and I were alone in an enormous office. There was a desk of gigantic proportions, and behind that, a deep armchair. On the walls were imposing portraits of the Admiral, wise and full of authority. In a comer stood a statue of the Admiral on horseback. The live Admiral took off his hat, loosened his collar and gave a sigh of relief. He even loosened his belt a notch and winked. Clearly, I was being taken into his confidence. Should I answer with a smile? No, he might think that impudent. The old man sank into his armchair and breathed heavily. Why didn’t he take off all those medals? They must have been a tremendous weight to carry around. He seemed to age right before my eyes.

  “An undercover man,” he muttered to himself, “an undercover man.” Apparently this amused him. Or was he, for all his great power and authority, turning a little senile? Then again, compelled as he was to live in uniform all his life, perhaps he nurtured some secret fondness for civilian things. They would be forbidden fruit for him.

  “An undercover man. An undercover man?…”

  He grunted affirmatively, clicked his tongue, cracked his knuckles—all this in the most casual way—but there was a purpose behind it, I knew. He looked me over and coughed politely. What, didn’t he trust me?

  Why did he look at my legs? An allusion to my earlier impulse to fall on my knees before him and confess?

  “Undercover man!” he wheezed. I sprang to my feet. He flinched and raised his hands.

  “Not too close! Stay where you are! Sing me a song, undercover man, sing me a song!” he shouted. I understood: afraid of treachery, the experienced old man was having me sing so that I could hide nothing from him.

  I sang whatever came into my head. He pointed to a side drawer and nodded for me to pull it out, which I did as I sang. The drawer was filled with little jars and smelled like an old-fashioned pharmacy. He gestured for me to take the jars out and line them up on his desk, which I did as I sang. He watched me anxiously, then sat up in his armchair, lifted the sleeve of his jacket, and with great caution peeled off his white glove. The hand was withered, spotty, full of veins; it had something on it that looked like a bug. In an urgent whisper, he ordered me to stop singing and hand him a pill from a gold jar. This he swallowed with extreme difficulty. Finally, when the pill was got down, he had me bring him a pitcher of water, pour some into a glass and measure in a liquid medicine.

  “Careful, undercover man!” he whispered nervously. “That stuffs strong—don’t spill it!”

  “Of course not, Admiral sir! Never!” I cried, touched by his trust in me. The trembling of his spotted, mole-covered hand became more pronounced as I began to add the medicine to his glass with an eyedropper.

  “One, two, three, four,” he counted the drops. At sixteen he screeched: “Stop!” I jumped, but fortunately the next drop stayed at the end of the dropper and didn’t fall in. Why sixteen? Apprehensive, I gave him the glass.

  Good … good, undercover man,” he said, no less apprehensive. “You … if you don’t mind … you … you try it first, yes?”

  I drank a little. It took him several minutes to drink the rest himself. His teeth kept chattering against the glass—he had to remove them. They made a broken white bracelet there on the desk. At last, with a martyred look, he managed to down the liquid. I held his hand to steady it—it felt like small bones loose inside a leather bag. If only he wouldn’t faint on me.

  “Admiral, sir…” I said, “would you allow me to present my case?”

  He closed his clouded eyes and seemed to shrink behind the desk as he listened to my feverish words. While I talked, he put his hand out—evidently he wished me to remove the other glove. Then he rested this hand on the one with the bug and coughed, listening intently to the rattle in his chest. But I continued to unfold before him my tangled tale of woe. Surely his infirmities would make him sympathetic toward the frailties of others; he would understand. His face, all covered with liver spots and moles, grew smaller between the misshapen ears, assumed more and more that look of patriarchal deterioration that so inspired my filial pity and respect. There were all sorts of growths—one, on the top of his balding head, looked like a downy egg. But were these not the scars of wounds sustained in the battle with implacable time, and did they not give him an air of the utmost venerability?

  Wishing my confession to appear as sincere as possible, I sat at his elbow and told him the whole, sad story of my mistakes, my slip-ups and defeats. I didn’t leave out a thing. His measured breathing, his nodding, the occasional smile that played over his open lips—all this comforted me, encouraged me, made me feel he was on my side. As I came to the end of my story, I leaned over and touched his arm—even that departure from regulations seemed to meet with his indulgence. Now filled with the highest hopes and at the same time deeply moved by my own words, I finally made my impassioned plea:

  “Will you help me, Admiral sir? Tell me what to do!” Of course, he needed time to reflect on all that I had said. But after an hour or two I thought it prudent to repeat, in the way of a reminder:

  “What should I do, sir?”

  He continued to nod, as if encouraging me to go on. But his face was turned away. Could it be that he was ashamed of the part he had played in the Building’s plot against me?

  Holding my breath, I moved even closer—and saw that he was asleep. He had been sleeping the whole time. The medicine must have helped. Now that I was silent, his sleep became deeper, he began to dream. There was a clicking in his throat, suddenly a whistle, then some cautious hissing, another whistle, a more determined whistle, a bold blast on the horn, a call to the hunt, and then I could hear all the sounds of the hunt, the rustling trees, the shouts, the galloping through dale and glen, an occasional shot carried by the wind, muffled and distant … then silence, then again the horn, and the chase renewed… I got up and tried to brush the bug off his hand. It wasn’t a bug at all.

  I took a closer look: dark spots, growths, myriads of moles, some flat and dry, some like the comb of a rooster, others sprouting hair with unseemly impudence…

  His uniform, I knew, was his refuge, his support, the thing that kept him in one piece, held him together—what a risk he had taken to unbutton and loosen it like that—I didn’t realize how great a risk until I saw him now at close quarters! No wonder he insisted on my keeping at a distance! At a distance there was only an innocent snoring, an ordinary flapping in the throat; close up, there was a veritable jungle of growths, wild, abandoned growths, growths that burrowed and spread in stealth. What madness of the skin was this? A dermatological fantasy in the manner of the Baroque? A self-willed, autonomous creation above hardening arteries? No, rather a rebellion, an uprising in the provinces, on the periphery of the organism! An attempt to break away, to escape in all directions! The hairy warts, the moles, the growths all grew, preparing themselves in secret, readying themselves to flee the worn-out biological matrix—as if by this dispersion they could avoid the inevitable end.

  A fine situation! Here was the Admiral—and here were these unsolicited pranks of nature, fully intending by their secret proliferation to survive him, survive him in the form of common warts!

  This changed things. Obviously, the old man was in no condition to help me. However, if he was unable to show me the way, to give me a sign, then perhaps … perhaps he was the sign himself, perhaps a message was being sent through him.

  An interesting thought. I took another close look at the Admiral: no doubt about it, these bumps and nodules, these neoplasms and lesions went far beyond the bounds of decency; the old man was bei
ng used, manipulated, made to sprout and multiply, grow spots and stains and hooves and bugs—see how that meaty birthmark beneath his eye flushed pink like the dawn of a new day! Shameful! Disgraceful!

  No, these arrogant claims, boasts to have discovered new forms, new means of creative expression, they led to the dead end of plagiarism. There was a cauliflower, for example, and here was plainly a mushroom, and here an obvious borrowing from poultry.

  If that were only all! But this amounted to desertion, treason! A generation of aggressive, hardy dwarfs feeding on a dying man’s sweat! I had before me—was nothing sacred?!—a cruel mockery, a jeering at the dignity of the soon-to-be-deceased.

  There was no longer any doubt. Here was no subtle hint, but a clear answer, a brutal rejection of all my lame explanations, excuses and arguments.