Memoirs Found in a Bathtub Part 7

COMMUNION WITH THE SAINTS -- see Contact.

What could I lose? I filled out a call slip for one of the daily orders under ANGELS. But then there were so many headings which made little or no sense: INFERNALISTICS, SCUTTLENAUTICS, DECEREBRATION, BODY-AND-SOULGUARDS, RETROCARNATION. I couldn't bother with them all; the card file was much too big, its wooden pillars reached the ceiling. Even the most superficial survey would take weeks, months. By now I had removed quite a pile of green, pink and white cards from the drawers; some had fallen to the floor. I started to put them back, one at a time. It seemed to take forever. With a glance over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching, I began to stuff the cards in any which way.

Could it be that the catalog was in such disorder precisely because others had wandered in here, just a I did? On one desk nearby stood a row of bulky black volumes, apparently an encyclopedia of some kind. I opened the volume marked S to look up SCUTTLENAUTICS. "SCRAMBLED EGGS -- the best breakfast against interception." No, that wasn't it. "SCUTTLENAUTICS -- the science of nonnavigation. See also Abortive Sailing, Mock Docking." I tried volume A. Under AGENT (SUB, SUPER, PROVOCATEUR) was a long paragraph and underneath that, an article ent.i.tled "AGENTS AND THEIR AGENCIES FROM EARLIEST TIMES TO THE PRESENT DAY."

Another volume lay open on the desk, and I read: "ORIGINAL SIN -- the division of the world into Information and Misinformation." I skipped from page to page, volume to volume, reading wherever my eye fell on an interesting definition. "RETROCARNATION -- 1) a Red that goes back on his word; 2) disembodiment, dematerialization -- see THIN AIR, POWDER, LAMB." Then there was a whole list of odd items under DECEREBRATION: persuasion by quartering, screws for screws, breaking codes without bones, fundamental flaying, and so forth. But I was tired of leafing through these dusty tomes; I wanted to see Major Erms. Yes, Erms would help me, I'd tell him everything! Suddenly there was a shuffling -- the old man had returned. He eyed me sharply from the doorway, smiled and raised his spectacles to the top of his bald head. It was only now that I noticed he was cross-eyed. That is, one eye watched me while the other wandered up, as if seeking inspiration from above.

"Find what you wanted?"

He squinted, whistled under his breath. (A signal?) Then he saw a card on the floor, one I'd missed, looked at it and said: "Ah. . . that too?" He clucked appreciatively as he picked it up with grimy fingers. "In that case, won't you come this way, sir? It's hard for an old codger like me to carry out such heavy volumes. Of course, they're not all heavy, but. . . you've been cleared, haven't you? You look like one of General Mla.s.sgrack's men, you do. Professional secrecy, confidential, top security, don't I know, heh-heh! Follow me, follow me, watch yourself, don't get dirty. . . the dust, you know!"

Rambling on in this way, he led me down a narrow, winding pa.s.sage into the stacks. I kept b.u.mping into atlases and folios as we went deeper into that murky labyrinth.

"Here!" my guide exclaimed at last in triumph. A bright, naked bulb lit up a fairly roomy alcove. We were surrounded by shelves that sagged beneath the weight of gray, crumbling books.

"Cake!" he snorted, waving the card in front of my nose. That was indeed the word on the card. "Cake, sir, help yourself to a slice. . . heh-heh! It's all here -- there's your Splanchnology, Innardry, Disemboweling and Reembowelment, Viscerators and Eviscerators. An original edition over here, De crucificatione modo pirmario divino, second-century, the only copy in existence, wonderfully preserved, and with ill.u.s.trations. Look at those shackles, will you, and here's flaying alive, there's playing dead, hamstringing, stringing up, tests of personal endurance. . . Now, on the next shelf -- no, that's Physical Tortures. I'm sorry, we're in this section here -- Bruises on the left, and on the right, Juices."

"Juices?" I couldn't help asking.

"Juices, juices. For example, a spit, an open fire, and you have juices, don't you? Yes, and on the next shelf -- Empaling. Mahagony, birch, oak, ash. And Bruises, they're easy -- but you must know all about it! Ah, n.o.body ever drops in any more, one gets so lonely. . . It's so nice to have a little company, sir, if you know what I mean. . . They say this is all old-fashioned, obsolete."

"Obsolete?"

"Oh, yes. Leave it to the butchers, they say. Top secret sirloin, tenderized -- Lieutenant Pirpitschek likes to joke. But things are picking up again, it seems, in our department. . . The dust here, the dust is just awful!"

He beat the dust off his sleeves and went on: "Allusions to cake, revolutions for cake -- let them eat cake, wasn't it? Ninety entries, all in all, a regular bakery, like our General says -- oh, there's a real man, the head of something terribly important, don't you know! 'Custodian Kappril, at your service, sir!' I say. But he, does he give me the book number right off? Not on your life! He hums a little tune -- hum hum, hum hum -- and I know exactly what he wants. Every time!. . . Dr. Mrayznorl is in charge here -- what's this? De strangulatione systematica occulta. Somebody must have put it here by mistake, that's physical -- and Mummification too, tsk-tsk. Excuse me, that's Crypta.n.a.lysis over there, you don't want that -- or do you? Take a look if you like, by all means. . . We have some very interesting books. That one you're holding, allow me, I'll wipe it off for you -- it's wipe off or be wiped out, like our General says. Heh-heh! He's wonderful with words, oh yes. . . What's that you're holding -- ah, The Universe in a Drawer -- what's his name again? Hyde, yes. A bit old-fashioned, but not bad. The Subcustodian of Archives spoke highly of it, and he's an expert in the field. Life in a Lavatory? Why would you want that?"

I put the book back hastily and pulled out another. My head was beginning to spin; an unbearable smell, overwhelming but unidentifiable, perhaps a little like mildew, or even sandpaper -- this heavy, nauseating breath of the moldering centuries seemed to pervade everything.

I should have settled for anything, taken the first book that came to hand and left. But I kept browsing, as if I were really looking for something. It certainly wasn't The Deontology of Treason, nor the small, dog-eared In Imitation of Nothing, nor the black handbook Updating the Transcendental, which for some reason was shelved in the Espionage section. Around a corner was a row of thick tomes, their bindings brittle with age and the paper spotted and yellow. The ill.u.s.trations were woodcuts, as was the frontispiece of The Compleat Spye, or, Everyman's Handbooke of Espyonage yn Three Partes, Prolegomena & Paralipomena by the Author -- Nugator Jonahberry O. Paupus. Between these bulky works were several incunabula, their covers torn and barely legible: Cloak-and-Dagger without Guesswork, Anarchy by Remote Control, The Bribe -- a Spy's Best Friend, Snooping in Theory and Practice. There was a bibliography of scopological and scopognostic literature, including scoposcopy. Machina Speculatrix, or, The Tactics of Counterespionage. Cohabitation and Collaboration. The fine Art of Treachery and The Constant Traitor. Do-it-yourself Denunciation. Favorite Blunders and Slipups with full diagrams. Traps and Taps. There were even artistic items -- a musical score with the t.i.tle carefully written in violet, The Walls Have Ears, A Divertimento for Four Trombones and Hidden Mike, and a collection of sonnets ent.i.tled Microdots.

Someone groaned. It was a terrible, heartrending groan that came from behind a part.i.tion. I grabbed the old man's sleeve and asked: "What was that?"

"Ah yes, the recruits are listening to records. It's a seminar on Applied Agony, Simulthanasia, or something like that. Tombsters, we call them," he muttered.

And indeed, that same groan was being played over and over again. I was ready to leave. But the old geezer fell into a fever of activity, he bustled about the shelves, jumped up on tiptoe, moved the rusty ladders here and there, darted up the rungs, threw books down, and in general raised a thick cloud of dust-all this to regale me with yet another exhibit, some decrepit rarity or other. And he never ceased his ranting and raving, almost to the rhythm of the howling behind the part.i.tion. The glistening drop at the tip of his nose swung wildly but never fell. Somehow, his crosseyed gaze never left me, so I had to be very careful -- he might discover I was here under false pretenses, an impostor. But no, he continued his frantic inspection, eager to show me still another dusty volume. Basic Cryptology was pressed into my hands and fell open to these words: "The human body consists of the following places of concealment. . ."

"Ah, here is h.o.m.o Sapiens As a Corpus Delicti, a splendid work, splendid. . . and this is Incendiaries Then and Now, and here's a list of the experts in the field -- listen: Meern, Birdhoove, Fishmi, Cantovo, Karck, and we're in it too of course, there's our Professor Barbeliese, Klauderlaut, Grumpf -- imagine that, Grumpf! This? The Morbitron by Glauble. Yes, he's an author as well. . . heh-heh! Now this pamphlet --"

He pulled out a stock of disintegrating cards.

"Umbilicomurology and, yes, the breeding and care of coypus -- there isn't anything we don't have here. . . What you're holding there, that's Fashion. You know, the cut of the straitjacket, things like that. . . Here are some other items: The ABC's of Self-surveillance, Automated Self-immolation. . ."

I backed away, trying to defend myself against this flood of talk and dust and decay, this barrage of strange terminology -- triple tails, coded leaks, spotted caches, exposed plants, strategic lays, integrated risks, sensitive channels, high-grade rendezvous entrapment. . .

Unable to take any more, I told the old man I had to leave. He glanced at his watch, a large silver onion.

"Is that a secret watch?" I asked.

"Of course it's a secret watch, what do you think?"

He put it back in his pocket and frowned as I mumbled some excuse about dropping in another time to pick out what I needed. . . He didn't seem to hear, he kept wanting to take me to other sections. Naked bulbs lit up the crowded shelves and cabinets like low-hung stars. Even at the exit he tried to show me another book, pointing out special pages, praising the work as if I were a potential buyer and he a half-mad bibliopole or bibliophile.

"But you took nothing, sir! You took nothing!" he pestered me all the way back to the catalog room. To get rid of him, I asked for the book on angels and a handbook of astronomy. I signed for them illegibly and left, a thick ma.n.u.script under my arm -- the book on angels, as it turned out, had never been published. I took a deep breath of fresh air out in the corridor. What a relief! But my clothes still carried the smell of rotting leather, bookbinder's glue and parchment. I felt like I'd just stepped out of a slaughterhouse.

6.

I had hardly left the Archives when a thought hit me. I returned and compared the door number with the one scribbled on my card: sure enough, I had made a mistake, I had taken the second digit for an eight instead of a three. So my real destination was 3383.

The fact that I had made a mistake and misread a number was a tremendous comfort to me. Until now, everything had seemed accidental but in reality had gone according to some plan. But this visit to the Archives, that was a genuine accident. And the Building was responsible for it: the room number had been written in too carelessly. Human error, then, still operated here; mystery and freedom were still in the realm of possibility.

Then too, the examining magistrate was as much to blame as I, the defendant -- we would have a good laugh together and the matter would be dismissed, I headed for 3383 confidently.

Judging from the great number of phones on every desk, 3383 was not just another office. I went straight to the head official's door -- but found no k.n.o.b to turn. The receptionist asked if she could be of any help. My explanation grew involved and complicated because I couldn't tell her the truth.

"But you have no appointment," she repeated over and over again. I demanded an appointment. But that was out of the question, she said; I would have to submit my pet.i.tion in triplicate through the proper channels, then get the necessary signatures. But my Mission was Special, Top Secret. I tried to explain without raising my voice; it could only be discussed in absolute privacy. But she was busy with the phones -- answering with a word or two here, pressing a b.u.t.ton or two there, putting some people on hold, cutting off others -- and hardly seemed to be aware of my existence.

After an hour of this I swallowed my pride and began to plead with her. But pleading didn't have the least effect, so I showed her the contents of my folder, the blueprint of the Building, the outline for Operation Shovel. I might have been showing her old newspapers for all the response this produced. She was the perfect secretary: nothing existed beyond the narrow limits of her routine. Driven to desperate measures, I let out a stream of terrible confessions -- I told her about the open safe, about how I had unwittingly caused the suicide of the little old man, and as none of this made the least impression on her, I began to invent things, I confessed to treason, high treason, anything, if only she would let me in. I demanded the worst -- arrest, dishonor -- I screamed in her ear. But she waved me away as if I were a fly, and continued to answer the phones with complete indifference. Finally, bathed in sweat, weak and trembling, I collapsed into a chair in the corner. Very well, I would wait. The examining magistrate, the prosecutor, whoever was hiding behind that office door had to come out sooner or later. To pa.s.s the time, I leafed through the ma.n.u.script I had with me. But I was too confused and wrought-up to concentrate. It said something about the sighting of angels. The astronomy handbook wasn't any easier to follow -- there were long paragraphs on galactic camouflage, nebulae prototypes, relocation of planets, cosmic sabotage. . . I read the same page ten times without understanding a thing. The hours pa.s.sed. Surely, this nightmare was worse than any torture I could have ever imagined. Countless times I got up to ask the receptionist questions in a feeble voice. Could she please tell me what time it was? When did her boss go out for lunch? Were there any other investigative offices or prosecution departments nearby? She advised me to try Information. And where was Information, I asked. Room 1593, she said and picked up another phone. So I gathered up my papers, the folder and the book, and walked out, totally crushed. There was nothing left of my earlier confidence, the calm I had achieved that morning, absolutely nothing. My watch informed me that I had spent practically an entire day in that office. Or an entire night, since time was relative in the Building.

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 1593 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 ma.n.u.script 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 pa.s.sed. 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, pa.s.sivity. 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 pa.s.sed 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sed, 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 corners 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 ta.s.sels 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, ta.s.sels, 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 pa.s.sively under this onslaught, their pale faces reflected and multiplied in the dim mirrors -- as were their torn insignia and shredded uniforms. The old man walked up and down this avenue of shame, then 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, pa.s.sed 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 corner 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 gla.s.s and measure in a liquid medicine.

"Careful, undercover man!" he whispered nervously. "That stuff's 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 p.r.o.nounced as I began to add the medicine to his gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s.

"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 gla.s.s -- 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, a.s.sumed 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 inpa.s.sioned 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, 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, m.u.f.fled 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 unb.u.t.ton 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 b.u.mps and nodules, these neoplasms and lesions went far beyond the bounds of decency; the old man was being 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.

I sat down, shattered. It was immaterial now whether that answer came from him or through him. In either case it was the Building that spoke. What fantastic cunning, to utilize even the approach of death, the very marks of its proximity, to conduct official business!

Still, this was no final solution. They were merely letting me know that everything had been taken note of, all my little sins, impersonations, excuses, treasons. I was being given a reprieve; the time for sentencing had not yet come.

Cut the Gordian knot or be strangled by it, be convicted or found pure as the driven snow. . . as if my destiny was to have some monument raised in my name -- either in this Building or the other! Any moment now guards could break in and seize me, arrest me, terminate me. But such tactics were out of fashion. Besides, they knew I couldn't stay here by the sleeping Admiral now that I had received the message, they knew I would take up my wandering again, like a dog nursing its injured paw.

Suddenly angry, I paced the luxurious carpet. The Admiral sat in his armchair, shrunken, so unlike the hale and hearty portraits that stared out fiercely from the walls. I looked around with the impatience of a thief, feeling that as yet I had done nothing of consequence, that even my transgressions hardly counted for anything. If only I could attract attention to myself, do something spectacular, rise or fall, it didn't matter. . . even disaster would be a victory. . . even the worst crime. . .

The desk had an unusual number of locks; it evidently contained valuable doc.u.ments. I knelt and pulled gently at one of the drawers. Inside were cardboard boxes tied with rubber bands and marked "one teaspoon three times a day," and there was a strongbox full of pills. The next drawer had more of the same: Nothing but medicine. I found a bunch of keys and proceeded to try them, one by one, in the locks, getting down on all fours behind the desk. No, this they hadn't foreseen, that I would be capable of such a low deed, rifling the Admiral's desk, and under his very nose! There was no turning back now; this was not the sort of thing one could explain away later. My hands trembled as I pulled out box after box, tore the wrappings off packages -- nothing, nothing but bottles, vials, jars of salve, tranquilizers, Band-Aids, medicine for corns, suppositories, supports and trusses, safety pins, cotton b.a.l.l.s and cotton swabs, all sorts of sprays and powders, eyedroppers, tweezers, thermometers. That was all?!

Impossible! It was a trick! Camouflage! I tapped the remaining drawers. I felt around, heard the click of a hidden spring, reached in and pulled out -- a cap, a stick, a sling-shot, a spotted stone, a dried leaf, and -- aha! -- a sealed packet. I broke the seal and several cards fell out, the kind that come with bubble gum. What else? Nothing else.

They were animal cards: a donkey, a zebra, a buffalo, a baboon, a hyena, and an egg. A donkey? That meant. . . I was an a.s.s? What about an elephant? Awkward, thick-skinned. Hyena? Let's see, a hyena fed on carrion. . . the old man? And a baboon? Baboon, monkey, monkey business, ape -- an ape, apes, of course! Then. . . they had antic.i.p.ated my attempted burglary. . . and the egg? What did the egg say?

I turned the card over. Ah! The cuckoo. The cuckoo puts her egg in another bird's nest -- an act of treachery, falsification! What then? a.s.sault? Murder? But how could I murder that poor old man with moles? Anyway. . .

"Peep," he mumbled under his breath and began to snore in a tremolo, like a nightingale, a very old nightingale.

That was the last straw. I threw everything back in the drawers, brushed off my knees, stepped over a puddle of spilled medicine, and collapsed into a chair. Not to deliberate on what I should do next, but just to collapse -- to collapse in despair and exhaustion.

7.