Memoirs Found in a Bathtub Part 8

I have no idea how long I sat there. The old man gave an occasional snort in his sleep, but that couldn't rouse me from my stupor. Several times I got up and went to see Major Erms, and it always turned out to be a dream. Then the thought occurred to me that I could simply sit there, just sit there -- they'd have to do something about it eventually. Except what about those long, long hours I had spent in that horrible reception room? No, they'd let me rot first. . .

Quickly, I gathered up my papers and went to Major Erms. He was at his desk, writing something with one hand and stirring coffee with the other. He lifted his blue eyes and looked straight at me. There was a cheerful strength in those eyes, the joyful att.i.tude of a puppy pleased with everything, a puppy. . . a dog. . . was there something in that? But he interrupted my thoughts by saying: "You're late! I was beginning to think -- poof! -- into thin air! Where were you?"

"With the Admiral," I said, taking a seat. He tilted his head in a gesture of mock respect.

"Indeed," he said. "You don't waste time. I should have known."

"Cut that out!" I yelled, rising from my chair, my fists clenched.

"What?" he gasped, astonished. But I didn't let him speak. The d.a.m.n had burst and my words came pouring out and nothing could stop them -- I told him about my first meanderings through the Building, about the Commander in Chief, about the suspicion which even then had taken hold of me like an illness, and I told him how that suspicion had affected all my subsequent actions, how I was ready to accept the role of martyr, an innocent man convicted on circ.u.mstantial evidence, a man without a single blot on his record, and how I had prepared myself for the worst, but even the worst had been denied me and I was left to myself, always to myself, always infernally alone, and I told him how I wandered from door to door on business that made no sense, no sense to anyone. . . I told him everything, but even as I told him, I knew it was in vain. I repeated myself, I groped for words, circled, feeling something was missing, something didn't quite hold together. . . Then a thought hit me, and I began to think out loud, think the whole thing out -- that is, if I were to be of any use at all (putting aside all personal claims, illusions, hopes), then wasn't it foolish, even criminal, to waste me in this way? What would the Building gain if I fell to pieces? Nothing! Then what purpose did all this nonsense serve, and wasn't it about time they called it quits and gave me back my instructions, acquainted me with at least the general idea of the Mission, whatever that might be? For my part, I could guarantee that I would endeavor, with all my heart and soul, above and beyond the call of duty, pledging loyalty, faith, devotion. . .

Unfortunately my speech, chaotic enough to begin with, did not improve towards the end. Out of breath, shaken, I stopped in mid-sentence. Major Erms's blue eyes stared at me in consternation. Then he lowered them and stirred his coffee, fumbling with the spoon -- ah, he was embarra.s.sed, embarra.s.sed for me!

"Really, I don't know. . ." he began in a quiet and friendly way, though I thought I detected a note of severity in his voice. "I don't know what to do with you. To take such risks. . . such schoolboy pranks. . . opening medicine chests, really! It's painful even to mention it! How could you let your imagination run away with you like that?" He was increasingly stern, yet somehow still maintained that incredibly sunny disposition of his.

This time however I was not going to be led around by the nose. I said quickly: "And my instructions? Why didn't you explain them to me? Prandtl categorically refused to. In fact, he actually -- he stole them from me --"

"He what?"

"He didn't do it himself, there was this fat officer in the room. . . but Prandtl knew about it, I'm positive."

"Oh, so you're positive. That's nice. And do you have any proof of this?"

"No," I admitted -- but immediately resumed the offensive: "Look, Major Erms, if you really want to help me, tell me right now what was in those instructions!"

And I looked him in the eye.

"So that's what you're after!" He burst out laughing. "My dear fellow, how could I possibly remember? Really, there are so many -- just look!" He picked up thick stacks of paper from the desk and waved them in the air. "You honestly expect me to remember all this? Come on, have a heart. . ."

"No!" I said firmly. "I don't believe you! You say you don't remember anything? Not even the general idea? Well, I just don't believe you!!"

If only I hadn't gone too far. After all, he was the only man I could count on, my last resort. Even now, I felt this. If he were suddenly to confess that he was only acting under orders, that he was not what he seemed to be, not Major Erms the honest young man with friendly, blue eyes but just another part of the Building -- then nothing remained for me but to go to that bathroom upstairs and. . .

Major Erms did not speak for a long while. He rubbed his forehead, he scratched his ear, he sighed.

"You lost your instructions," he finally said. "All right. That's something. It calls for disciplinary action. I'll have to initiate proceedings. But don't worry, it won't be bad -- unless you left the premises at any time. You didn't leave the Building, I hope?"

"No."

"Thank G.o.d!" he sighed with relief. "In that case, the whole thing will be a mere formality. We'll take care of it later. As far as what you've said in this office is concerned, I didn't hear any of it, understand? If I listened every time a colleague blew off steam here, well -- I wouldn't be fit to hold this position!" His fist hit the desk. "You doubt my sincerity. Why should I like you, you wonder, when we hardly know each other?" He spread his arms. "But it isn't like that at all. Please pay attention to what I have to say. I'm not just another petty official pouring over a lot of meaningless papers, I'm not another blasted bureaucrat! I'm a terminal, a port, a stopping-off point for our very best people, people who are on their way -- there. Now, you've been singled out for a Special Mission. So while I don't know you personally, I do know that on that basis alone (not everyone gets a Mission, after all) you merit my respect, my trust, my friends.h.i.+p -- particularly as your work demands that you will be alone for an indefinite period of time, alone and in the greatest peril. . . I would be a swine indeed if, under those circ.u.mstances, I didn't do all in my power to offer you a helping hand -- not merely in an official capacity, but in every capacity possible! You are angry that I don't recall your instructions? You have every right to be angry! I have a lousy memory, it's true. On the other hand, my superiors don't hold that against me. In our business, it's not healthy to remember too much. Suppose you're about to leave on your Mission and I happen to blurt out -- unintentionally, of course -- some detail, oh the most unimportant trifle. Yet, finding its way there through certain channels, it could prove fatal, destroy you. You understand? Isn't it better, then, for me to forget what pa.s.ses through my hands? Otherwise, I'd have to be constantly on my guard, watch every word. . . And then, it's not every day that someone loses his instructions! You can hardly blame me for not having prepared for that eventuality! We'll start disciplinary procedures against you, that can't be helped -- but do get rid of these unfounded suspicions."

"Very well," I said. "I understand. At least, I'm trying to understand. But what about my instructions? Someone must have the originals!"

"Sure!" he answered with a characteristic toss of his blond hair. "The Commander in Chief has them in his safe. You need special permission to get at them, of course. Those things can't be done in a hurry. But it shouldn't take too long!" he added hastily.

"May I leave this with you?" I asked, placing my folder on his desk.

"What is it?"

"Didn't I tell you? It's the folder they switched on me."

"Ah, there you go again!"

He shook his head.

"I wonder," he said, half to himself, "if I shouldn't send you to Medicals. . ."

But he opened the folder and glanced at the plan and the map sewn together with white thread. He examined them. There was an odd look on his face.

"Peep," he muttered under his breath.

His bright eyes lifted and met mine.

"Mind if I leave you for a second? Just a second, I promise. . ."

I didn't protest, especially since he took the compromising doc.u.ments with him. He went out by a side door, didn't even bother to shut it; I heard a chair move, and then a faint scratching sound. I got up, tiptoed over to the door, and peeked in.

Major Erms was sitting at a small desk under a bright lamp, guiding a pencil over a blank sheet of paper with the utmost care. He was copying out the plans of the Building. I moved closer, unable to believe my eyes. The floor creaked. Erms whirled around and saw me. He was startled at first, but quickly broke into a friendly grin.

"I didn't want to be rude," he said, getting up, "and work right in front of you. . . which is why. . ."

He tossed his sketch on the desk with an exaggerated lack of concern. It skidded across the highly polished wood and almost fell to the floor. Erms handed me the original papers.

"No, you keep them," I mumbled, confused by the whole incident.

"And what would I do with them? No, they have to be submitted to the Registry. You're going there anyway to file a formal report on the loss of your instructions. I'd gladly take care of the matter for you, except that unfortunately this has to be done in person."

We returned to his office and sat down, facing each other across the desk.

"Then -- the originals of my instructions? I have to wait until after the disciplinary action?" But before he could reply, I added, surprised that I was actually asking this: "Why did you copy those plans?"

"Copy?" Major Erms shook his head. "You're imagining things. I was only checking their authenticity. There are so many fakes in circulation, you know."

I wanted to shout, "That's not true! I saw it! You were making a copy!" But all I could say was: "They're fakes?"

"Well, I shouldn't be telling you this, but. . ." He leaned over with a conspiratorial air. "Everything's authentic except for the second and third levels. . . but keep that under your hat."

"Of course!" I said, and was about to leave when I remembered the meal tickets. He rummaged around for them, looked in his pockets and under his papers, cursing his forgetfulness, tossing out all sorts of personal odds and ends on the desk. Among them was a small, spotted stone.

I waited and watched him carefully. Was he telling the truth? I had seen with my own eyes how he copied the plans. What did it mean? Why would he do something like that?

Could it be that the head of the Department of Instructions was also working for. . . Really, what nonsense! This was not normal, healthy suspicion. Could I be on the brink of a nervous breakdown? My actions in the Admiral's office, for example, all that melodrama. Here was an old man who needed a nap at the end of a long and difficult day, who had a few blemishes common to old age, who collected animal cards -- and I had to conjure up some diabolical plot out of all this! How absurd! Still, Major Erms did copy those plans, plans which had nothing to do with his Department -- he said so himself -- and which he was not even allowed to hold for me. . . Why didn't he at least close the door? Did he take me for a harmless idiot? That I doubted. Then why expose himself like that, unless. . .

Unless he considered me an ally, said a strange voice in my head. Suddenly, there was a shout: Major Erms had found my meal tickets, they were in his wallet.

"Here," he said, giving them to me. "Now go to 1116, that's the Registry, give them your papers and make your report. I'll phone ahead and let them know you're coming. But please, go straight there, don't get lost on the way!" He smiled and walked me to the door. I went meekly, my head filled with a hundred bewildering thoughts, and was already walking down the hall when he stuck his head out the door and yelled: "Drop in later!"

I continued on my way. If he took me for an ally. . . then he had no fears I would expose him. I wasn't that familiar with the machinery of intelligence, but I did know that agents a.s.signed to different territories usually couldn't identify one another. This was to minimize the possibility that some serious slip-up might uncover the whole operation, blow the entire network. On the basis of all the evidence against me, Major Erms could easily have taken me for one of his. . . though, on the other hand, he would be in no hurry to reveal himself to me. One thing didn't fit. If Major Erms was really working for the enemy, that is, if he was an infiltrator, a plant in the Department of Instructions, and if he really took me for someone working on his side, then surely he would warn me, let me know the score, not deliberately try to confuse me. . .

Just a minute! Was there ever such a thing as solidarity among agents? Everyone was out for himself, everyone had his own a.s.signment. Major Erms would sacrifice me without a moment's hesitation, whether I was an ally or not, if that would strengthen his own position or in any way promote the success of whatever mission he had himself.

Yes, clearly he would. Then what could I do? Where could I turn? I'd left my book and papers in his office: that would be pretext enough. I hurried back, trying my best to a.s.sume an appropriately absentminded look. I went in without knocking.

Never in a hundred years would I have thought to catch him doing this!

Sitting back in his chair, legs propped up on the desk, and beating time on the coffee cup with his spoon, he was singing! Oh, he must have been thoroughly pleased with himself! Those plans he copied -- what a windfall! He broke off when he saw me, not a bit embarra.s.sed, and laughed.

"You caught me red-handed! Fooling around on the job! A man does what he can not to turn into a rubber stamp. Your book, right? Over there. You know, I admire you -- even waiting around in reception rooms, you improve your mind. And don't forget the papers." I nodded and was about to leave, when a thought hit me.

"Sir?"

It was the first time I had called him "sir." He frowned.

"Yes?"

"This whole conversation. . . it was in code, wasn't it?"

"But --"

"Code," I insisted, even managing a smile. "Right? Everything, everything is code!"

I left him standing behind the desk with his mouth open.

8.

I practically ran from there, afraid he might follow in pursuit. Now why had I done that? To frighten him? How could he possibly fear me? I was helpless in a net, and he and others like him held the ends of it in their hands. Even so, I felt more confident -- but why? After some thought, I came to the conclusion that I owed this moral boost to none other than Major Erms -- it was not his empty chatter, his pretended sincerity, his displays of warmth and attention, things I had believed in for a while only because I needed to believe, but it was that scene I witnessed through the open door that encouraged me. For if, I reasoned, he was really one of them and held such a high position, then it was possible to fool, deceive, outsmart the Building, even in its most highly guarded strongholds. That meant the Building was far from infallible, that it was omniscient only in my imagination. A depressing discovery, in a way -- yet it opened new and unexpected horizons.

Halfway to the Registry I had second thoughts. Major Erms had sent me there, so they expected me. I had to do something different, I had to break out of that vicious circle of planned activity. But where could I go? Nowhere, and he knew it. Except the bathroom. The bathroom wasn't that bad -- I could think things over there in peace and quiet, try to make some sense out of it all, and I could shave. I needed a shave. The only reason they didn't stare at me in the hall was probably that they had orders not to.

I took an elevator up to the bathroom with the razor, got the razor and took it to my regular bathroom. But at the door I remembered something Major Erms had said, something about a close shave. Had he foreseen this eventuality? I stared at the white door. Should I go in or not? How could shaving have any effect on anything? Anyway, I could sit here as long as I wanted to, in solitude -- they had no jurisdiction over the bathroom!

I entered cautiously: the place was vacant, as usual. But wasn't the lightbulb by the urinals a little brighter than before? I walked in, and almost immediately jumped back -- there was a man lying alongside the tub, a towel rolled under his head for a pillow. My first impulse was to leave. But they were probably expecting me to do just that, so I decided to stay.

The man didn't stir, not even when I tripped over my feet and crashed into the sink; he was sound asleep. All I could see, from where I stood, was the top of his head, not enough to tell whether I knew him or not. Still, he looked like a stranger. He wore civilian clothes, had a jacket over his shoulders, a striped s.h.i.+rt with dirty cuffs under a thin sweater. One hand was tucked under his head, and the knees were drawn up to the chin. His breathing was deep and steady.

"Well," I thought, "there are other bathrooms. I can move wherever I want." Though the notion of moving was silly -- what was there to move but myself?

Let him sleep, I could still shave; there was nothing subversive in that. I put the razor on the sink under the mirror, reached over the sleeping man to get the soap from the soap dish by the tub, then turned on the hot water and inspected myself in the mirror. The face of a derelict. My stubble made me look thinner; in another few days it would be on the way to a beard. I lathered up the skin as best I could without a brush and tried the razor: extremely sharp. Now shaving has always helped me think, and since the man on the floor didn't disturb me in the least, here was a good opportunity to come to grips with my predicament.

What had happened so far? General Kashenblade had entrusted me with a Special Mission when I went to see him, then there were the displays, the collections, my first guide was arrested, the second one vanished, I was left alone with an open safe, then there was the little old man with the gold spectacles, his suicide, another officer and his suicide, then the chapel with the corpse, the priest who gave me the number of Major Erms's office, then Prandtl, the flies in the coffee, the disappearance of my instructions, my despair, my accidental or -- let's not jump to conclusions -- unaccidental visit to the Archives, next to the reception room of the Investigation Department, the Admiral, the Counter-decoration Ceremony, finally my second conversation with Major Erms. Those were, more or less, the incidents. Now the people involved. . . in order not to sink here into a hopeless mire of conjecture, I had to take something definite as my starting point, something concrete, indisputable, a clear fact. Death would serve. I began with the little old man, in the gold spectacles.

He poisoned himself because he had taken me for someone else, a courier from them; he thought, since I didn't return his coded signals with the appropriate counter-signals, that I was sent to punish him for treason. Of course, he wasn't really an old man. There was no mistaking that shock of black hair beneath the wig. But the captain (the one who shot himself) kept referring to him as "old." Had the captain been lying, then? Not unlikely, especially in light of what followed. The captain's suicide definitely made his words suspect. He killed himself because he was afraid of me. The exposure of any relatively minor offense would not have driven him to take such a drastic step. Ergo, he had to be an agent for them. The little old man (let's continue to call him that -- after all, he took his guise to the grave with him) was obviously one of them. Otherwise, his suspicions and his loyalty would have demanded he turn me in, hand me over to the authorities. He took poison instead. Both deaths were quite real, undeniable -- I saw them myself. So there was no doubt that both the little old man and the captain were enemy agents, the first less important, a mere p.a.w.n, the second quite important, considering his high position. Now the captain, a.s.suming I was an investigator from Headquarters, quickly denounced the little old man to me, who was dead anyhow at the time of our conversation. He tried to explain why he hadn't denounced the little old man earlier in the game, pleading personal ambition and an overzealous dedication to the Cause. But when he saw that I wasn't buying this (actually, I simply didn't understand his code), there was nothing left but to shoot himself.

Though this interpretation of the two suicides made sense, it didn't settle the question of my role in the whole episode. That is, had it all been worked out in advance, or was my appearance in those two offices a tragic accident?

"Let's go on," I thought. "This a.n.a.lysis may yet lead to something."

I finished shaving, wiped off the lather, splashed cold water on my face. I felt almost cheerful. My reasoning demonstrated that not everything in the Building was incomprehensible; I had managed to piece together at least a part of the puzzle. Drying my face with a rough towel, I noticed the man on the floor -- I had completely forgotten him. Yes, he was still asleep. Having no intention now of going to the Registry, and hardly eager to continue my wandering from corridor to corridor, I sat on the edge of the tub, leaned back against the tiled wall, drew my knees up, and returned to my thoughts.

Major Erms, friendly Major Erms. There was trouble there. Even if he wasn't out to double-cross the Building, I couldn't trust him. For all his great show of sincerity, not a peep about my Mission. He either gave me compliments I didn't deserve or dealt in generalities that said nothing. When pressed, he did give me my instructions. But then they were stolen in Prandtl's office. That was realty the important thing, the instructions themselves, not Major Erms. If he gave them to me, knowing they wouldn't be in my possession long, then it was only to let me take a look. . .

And were those papers the real instructions? Real instructions would have been addressed to me, would have presented plans, suggested lines of action, and certainly would have given the scope, the essence of the Mission. But they looked more like memoirs, the memoirs of a man lost in the Building! A code? What sort of code would look like that?

Well, perhaps, if I were to believe Prandtl. Even Shakespeare could be deciphered, according to Prandtl. Though I had only his word for it. I hadn't really seen any decoding machine, just a hand, and tape coming out of a hole in the wall.

Better not be too skeptical -- there was nowhere left to go, that way. And that peculiar sigh in my face, as if Prandtl had something to tell me, but didn't dare -- the sigh, the expression in his eye?

That couldn't be dismissed. There was more than human compa.s.sion in that sigh -- perhaps an awareness of my predicament, knowledge of what the Building had in store for me. Prandtl was the only one I'd met who stepped outside the rule of official impersonality, having first alluded to its burden.

Yet was it really so surprising that Prandtl should know what was planned for me? Even without the sigh, it was perfectly clear that I had been summoned to the Building and chosen for the Mission -- for some definite purpose. A mighty revelation! Really, was this the best I could do?

The sleeping man groaned and turned over, covering most of his face with his jacket. After which he was still again and breathing evenly.

I watched him for a while, then gradually returned to the idea I had had -- for how long? -- forever, it seemed -- the idea that all of this, even now, was still a test, a fantastically prolonged and involved test.

Seen in that light, so much of what had puzzled me now fell into place -- especially the continual postponement of my Mission, as if they were checking me out thoroughly first, seeing how I'd react in totally unexpected and confusing situations, testing my personal endurance as well, toughening me up, preparing me for the real thing. Naturally every precaution had to be taken to hide this from me; once I guessed that these situations were simulated and therefore harmless, the entire test would be ruined and the training made worthless.

Yet I had guessed! Were my powers of observation a cut above the normal? Suddenly I shuddered, almost slipping off the tub: I had found the common thread that ran through all these incidents. . .

In the course of only a few hours, almost at every step since I entered the Building, I had come into contact with enemy agents. First the guide they arrested in the hall after he took me through the collections, then the pale spy with the camera at the open safe, then the little old man with the gold spectacles, and the captain who shot himself, not to mention Major Erms, a prime suspect -- five agents in all, five conspirators revealed -- and in so short a time! It was more than incredible -- it was impossible! It was impossible for the Building to be in such a state of decay, so completely, so ma.s.sively infiltrated. One agent alone would make you stop and think -- but four or five? Utterly beyond the realm of possibility. There had to be something behind it. A test, a staging. But that theory didn't satisfy me. A swarm of enemy agents, open safes full of secret doc.u.ments, spies around every corner -- that could all be staged for my benefit, yes. But the deaths? I remembered only too well those final convulsions, the death rattle, the cooling of the body -- how could I possibly doubt the authenticity of those deaths? Nor would deaths be ordered up as part of the deception -- not that the Building was motivated by compa.s.sion, nothing of the kind! But purely for the most practical reasons: it was unthinkable to sacrifice the lives of well-placed and high-grade operatives simply to train another recruit, a candidate. No new agent was worth the loss of two pros.

My theory collapsed in the face of those two deaths, it had no choice. No choice?. . . How many times, traveling aimlessly here and there like a speck of dust in the wind, driven like a blade of gra.s.s in a stream, never knowing what the next moment would bring, sometimes submitting to events, sometimes resisting them -- how many times had I been forced to admit, always too late, that in any case I always ended up exactly where they wanted me? I was a billiard ball aimed with mathematical precision; my every move was plotted out, my every thought, even this thought, this sudden sense of futility, this dizziness, that enormous, invisible eye pointed at me now, watching everywhere, and all the doors waiting for me only to shut in my face, the phones waiting for me only to go dead, my questions remaining unanswered, and the whole Building united against me! Ah, and when I was ready to break, explode, go mad, they came and comforted me, kind and sympathetic -- only to let me know later, unexpectedly, through some allusion or incident, that all my secrets were known to them. Major Erms ordered me to report to the Registry, knowing full well I would defy him and head for the bathroom instead -- and that was why I found this man here and was now killing time, waiting for him to wake up.

Yet why did the Building practically admit at the same time that its entire structure was infested with them, that apparently nothing could stem that fatal infiltration? Or was this cancer of treason only a figment of my imagination? The product of a disordered mind?

It was time to examine myself. In the beginning I had a.s.sumed that I was singled out, selected for something unusual. The obstacles in my way? Merely administrative errors; inconvenient, annoying, but no great cause for concern -- unavoidable in any bureaucracy. When my instructions proved elusive, I resorted to bolder and bolder tactics (and got away with them), tactics which were not always clean (since I was convinced that honesty had no place here) -- I had presented myself as an emissary from high up to obtain vital information, for example, or I had used, like a stolen weapon, those ominous code numbers which drove the captain to his suicide -- and my lies had escalated as I pursued my goal, then as I began to avoid my goal, then as I turned about and fled from my goal -- they were almost second nature to me now.

Though everything had been a lie, an illusion. But I pretended not to notice and plowed ahead, seeking some sign, some unmistakable proof of my Mission -- though it had begun to dawn on me that there was no little dishonor in the honor of having a Mission, if I had to play dirty tricks, hide under desks, witness violent deaths, and then be hounded, ensnared, forced to invent one ridiculous explanation after another!

Deceived and robbed of everything, including my instructions and even the hope of their existence, I tried to explain, to justify myself -- but since no one would listen, not even to catch me at my lies, the burden of the crimes I hadn't committed began to weigh so heavily upon me that I soon was prepared to accept this role of criminal, if only to make it a reality, to have my sentence and punishment over and done with. I sought out judges, not to plead my case but to confess, confess to everything and anything. It hadn't worked. In the Admiral's office I had played the traitor according to what I imagined a traitor to be, I planted the most incriminating evidence, rifled the drawers, ripped out their false bottoms -- in vain.

In all of this, whether trusting and believing, if only for a moment, in the Mission and my instructions, or having my hopes dashed, even the hope of my own destruction -- in all this, I had been seeking some reason, good or bad, for my presence here. But neither indications of favor nor suspicions of treachery had seemed to make the least bit of difference. Again and again I was given to understand that nothing, really, was expected of me. And that was the only thing I couldn't accept, because it didn't make sense.

Begin at the beginning: what if there were no staging, no test, no masquerade, but this were the Mission itself, my Special Mission?

For a brief moment, that thought was like the opening of a door -- I didn't dare examine it, only closed my eyes and listened to the pounding of my heart.

The Mission? Why should they hide it from me, then, why not simply tell me that my work would take me somewhere inside the Building, or that I was to keep certain people under surveillance? And why not brief me fully on what had to be done -- instead of sending me out blindly, destination unknown, a.s.signment unknown? If I ever accomplished anything, it would have to be an accident.