Memoirs Found in a Bathtub Part 10

"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 b.u.mper crop all right -- and there you stand, spick-and-span, pearls before swine, a bull in a china shop! He whispers in your sh.e.l.l-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-tuner. 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, his 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 doc.u.ments! 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.

He made a bitter, twisted smile. "You don't believe me -- all right! At least you're trying. Listen. First they lined up for the bread, once upon a time. The last seat, toilet or otherwise, was taken. Full house. Afterwards -- quit when the money's still coming in? Then they couldn't quit. Plant, infiltrate, fake, doctor, drug! Under the rug! Double agents, all right -- triples, fine -- quadruples, okay -- and then quintuples come but of the woodwork! Lord knows how long this has been going on! An epidemic! A plague! Me, I tell you this, an honest, decent spy of the old school -- me you can believe!" And he beat his breast.

"Wait a second," I said, "I'm not sure I understand. Are you trying to say --"

"I'm not trying to say anything -- can't you understand that? What, I should spill my guts? Are you a phonograph needle to my worn-out record? Must you magnify every sound, split every hair, turn every word upside down, inside out, look in the lining of every syllable, and my snoring, the soap, the razor -- must everything be an allusion? All right, do what you will -- just keep away from the razor! You have time yet. Things would be too easy if you could have the razor right off. You know, when I first saw you I thought you were sent to take it away."

"But I brought it here, from upstairs! It isn't yours, is it?"

"Like I say, you have time yet. Above all, keep up your strength. Regular meals, an occasional snack, cookies and milk, some cake. . . What's the matter? You think that when I say 'cake,' I mean something, like maybe Headquarters or your instructions? Forget it! Cake is cake, period -- at least with me. And no one sent me. I slept, I shaved, I missed supper on account of you, and now I'm off. See, I told you everything you wanted to know, and you don't believe a word of it! Not a word, right? I spill my guts, give you the real dope on all these espials and cabals, and you go and make another puzzle out of it." He got up.

"So you're not a spy?"

"Who says I'm not? Who says I am? Give me something spiable, why don't you! No, I've had it. It's always the same -- and for what? For whom? I'm through, the good guy, the simple soul, the individualist, my song is sung. What do they take me for, an onion? Now even s.e.xtuples are turning up. When you get over your suspicions, drop in. Tomorrow, after supper. All right?"

"All right," I said.

"See you. Stiff upper lip. I'm off to find a snack bar."

At the door he added over his shoulder: "Next on the agenda is the doctor, plates, and then lily white. After the plates, you receive spiritual comfort. Then more monkey business. If I'm not here, wait. I'll come for sure."

"I'll wait."

He shut the door behind him. I heard his footsteps recede, another door open and close, then silence. They had put a lid on me, to bring me to a boil that much faster.

10.

So. . . I had considered myself the center of the universe, the bull's-eye, so to speak, for all the slings and arrows the Building had to offer -- and all along I was nothing, just one of a series, another copy, a stereotype, trembling in all the places my predecessors trembled, repeating like a record player exactly the same words, feelings, thoughts. My melodramatic actions, the sudden impulses, false starts, surprises, moments of inspiration, each successive revelation -- all of it, chapter and verse, including this present moment, was in the instructions -- no longer my instructions, they weren't made for me. . . So if this was neither a test nor a Mission, nor chaos -- what was left? The bathroom? The corridors? Going from door to door, from door to door. . .

Why had he told me so much? He too, of course, was part of the instructions, appearing like a note in a musical score, a note whose turn had come. And he played it well, the old veteran! But why? Where was all this heading?

I slid down from the tub and lay on the floor for a while, my feet propped up on the toilet. How disgusting it all was! Quadruples, triplets. . . What did it mean? Maybe nothing, just a diversion. Diversion from what? Apple strudel, window dressing, burning bushes-it made me dizzy. And what about that cauliflower that gave one nightmares? And eating regularly, cookies and milk and cake and onions. . . Were they all crazy? Were they out to make me crazy too? Then everything would be fine, for if everyone's crazy, no one's crazy. . . But where was it all heading?

I looked at my watch: stopped. Even it had betrayed me. I tore it off my wrist and tossed it into the toilet. Let the Sanitation Department fish it out and examine it. . . Where was the razor? He had taken it, robbed me -- trying to provoke me to -- to do what? Yes, of course! Perfect! Full speed ahead!

I left the bathroom, whistling. I smiled at all the officers I pa.s.sed. I took an elevator. No one in the corridor upstairs. So much the better. So much the worse. I entered the office.

Empty, not a sign of Major Erms. I went to his desk, yanked the drawers out, turned them upside down, shook everything out onto the floor, onto the chair, papers everywhere, a whirling cloud of paper. The door squeaked open and I saw Major Erm's face, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

"What -- what are you doing?"

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" I roared, lunging at him. We fell and rolled through secret doc.u.ments -- I had him by the throat, I kicked him, I bit him, but it was all over in a moment. People came running up, someone pulled me back by the collar, someone else threw a cup of cold coffee in my face, and Major Erms got up, pale and shaking, and they helped him gather up his papers. I spat out a couple of ribbons I had bitten off his jacket and shrieked while they held me down: "Finish me off, villains, dogs! Finish me off! Yes, I plotted, I conspired! I am an agent of a foreign power! I aided, I abetted, I committed treason! Yes! I confess! Shoot me! Torture me! Finish me off!!"

Several people pa.s.sed by the open door, but no one looked in, even though I was bellowing at the top of my lungs. Finally, thoroughly hoa.r.s.e and exhausted, I could only gasp like a fish out of water. Someone in white approached me from the side, rolled up the sleeve of my jacket; I saw a moon face with gla.s.ses, felt something stab my arm, then an odd warmth spreading out. . .

"Tallyho!" I cried as everything faded away. "Bless you, murderers, bless you!"

I came to slowly, by degrees. I was enormous. Not that I had become a giant; my body hadn't grown. But I, the I who was now thinking, was a s.p.a.ce equivalent in volume to the s.p.a.ce surrounding me, if not larger. I didn't move a muscle, yet my inner being encompa.s.sed the myriad levels of the white labyrinth. Snugly ensconced in the warm depths of myself, between my powerful walls, I considered my recent trials and tribulations with infinite patience and pity.

Gradually I dwindled, tightened up, somehow returned to my old self. I was lying on a hard uncomfortable bed. I moved my fingers -- they stuck together. The coffee thrown at me must have had sugar in it. I lifted my head. It wobbled, as if it hadn't been properly screwed on. I sat up and leaned against a cold, tiled wall.

This wasn't a bathroom. I was on a vinyl couch, fairly high off the ground. The room was long and narrow, had white chairs and a folding screen at one end. I could see the corner of a small desk behind the screen. On the metal cart at my side were medicine bottles, a hypodermic syringe, a.s.sorted surgical instruments. Obviously, a doctor's office. Then I recalled what had just happened. So instead of throwing me in jail, they were treating me? What next?

Still in a daze, I tried to figure out why there were only ten bottles on the cart when there were supposed to be nineteen. At the same time I knew perfectly well that this didn't make any sense.

Someone behind the screen was looking at me; I saw the top of a head and the glint of gla.s.ses. It was the doctor who had given me the injection.

"How are you feelirig?" he asked, coming out.

"Fine, thanks."

A small man in white, on the plump side, eager to please, pink complexion. There were dark, intelligent eyes behind those thick, horn-rimmed gla.s.ses. The nose was a round b.u.t.ton, and there was a dimple in the chin. In the opening of his white coat I could see a green polka dot tie, and when he came nearer, the lapels of a uniform. He pulled up a stool next to my couch, sat down and took my pulse.

"I'm all right," I said when he brought out a stethoscope from the pocket of his coat.

"Of course," he replied in a smooth and pleasant voice. "Do you remember everything?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful! That's a very good sign. You are going through a most difficult, a most complicated period -- adjusting to a new environment, etc. Many things disturb the equilibrium, and then there's all that secrecy to contend with, how our psyche hates it! We have a stubborn, rebellious nature; the minute it is presented with anything forbidden, all h.e.l.l breaks loose, you see. A perfectly normal reaction, though -- er -- not exactly encouraged around here. We can help you."

"How?" I asked. I still had on my trousers and shirt. But my jacket was hanging on the wall and someone had taken off my shoes. I felt stupid without them.

"You're an intelligent man," he said with a broad smile, making a dimple in his left cheek. "And intelligence demands a certain skepticism -- a normal, healthy skepticism. Now, we're not omnipotent, Lord knows. . . if you don't object, of course, we could sit down and have a little talk. Just between us, you understand. But perhaps you'd like to wash up first? A bath?"

"That's a good idea. I'm sticky from that coffee. . ."

"Ah, let's not even mention that -- incident. I'll just say that the Major did ask me to tell you that he fully understands -- and there'll be no trouble on that score, none whatsoever."

"What?" I asked dully. He blinked.

"That little, uh, scene we had. . . You lost your temper, one might say you even lost your head -- there were certain disappointments, I suppose. We needn't go into it. But the Major asked me to give you a few words of encouragement. He thinks quite highly of you, you know. . ."

"You said something about a bath?" I interrupted, beginning to feel not unlike that spy in the bathroom. I got down from the couch. Whatever was in the injection had completely worn off. The doctor directed me through a side door to the bathroom. I hung my clothes up in a little closet, gave myself a good scrubbing, then took a cold shower. Feeling worlds better, I threw on a loose bathrobe which was folded over a chair nearby, went back to the closet and found it empty. Just then, I heard a cautious knock.

"It's me," came the doctor's voice from behind the door. "Can I come in?" I opened the door.

"My clothes," I said, confronting him.

"Oh yes, I forgot to tell you. The nurse took them to sew on a b.u.t.ton, or maybe they needed some ironing."