Memoirs Found In a Bathtub (23 page)

I started to run—hundreds of hands, high and low against the glass like a swarm of spiders or white, twisted worms rushing by—“But why so many?” I thought—“What can it mean—can it mean—what kind of museum—?—I’d better leave—”

Someone came running out of the darkness straight at me, the shadows flashing across his face, the mouth open in a voiceless scream and the eyes blank—but I was able to stop at the last minute, and reached out and touched the cold, smooth surface of—a mirror.

I stood before it, and behind me in the dark, blurry, many-aquariumed depths, in the silent, lifeless sea of a thousand groping signs, revolting mimes, there hung the numb and bloody hands of madness. I pressed my forehead to the cold glass, afraid to look.

The mirror moved, gave way, opened—the surface of a door—and I was in a tiny room, practically a closet. A little man, a very little man, sat behind a table in a trench coat and, bending over (nearsighted?), filed his nails.

“Have a seat,” he said, not looking up. “Chair’s in the comer. Remove the towel first. Have trouble seeing? It’ll pass. Wait a while.”

“I’m in a hurry,” I said. “How do I get out of here?”

“In a hurry? Better take a seat, catch your breath. There’s pen and paper here.”

“What?”

He filed his nails in a fury.

“Go ahead, I won’t bother you.”

“I have no intention of writing anything. How do I get out of here?”

“You have no intention?”

He stopped in mid-file and gave me a watery look. I’d seen him before, though I hadn’t really—red hair, thin mustache, hardly any chin, wrinkled jowls, as if there were walnuts stored inside.

“Then
I’ll
write,” he offered, returning to his nails, “and all you have to do is sign it.”

“Sign what?”

“A little confession.”

“So that’s your game!” I thought, careful not to clench my teeth—clenching my teeth could give me away.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said stiffly.

“Ah? Surely you haven’t forgotten your little party?…”

I said nothing. He blew on his nails, rubbed them on the lapel of his coat, looked them over carefully, then pulled a thick, black volume out of a drawer, opened it and read:

“Whosoever disseminates, circulates, advocates, or in any way promulgates and propagates the notion that the Antibuilding does not exist, is subject under Paragraph Two to immediate exoclasis—without appeal.” He smiled coaxingly. “Well?”

“I’m innocent.”

“Of course you’re innocent! Why, you were only sipping cognac and listening. A man can’t help listening, can he? We weren’t born with ear flaps, were we? Unfortunately, the law is not so understanding…”

He opened the book to another page.

“Whosoever witnesses or learns of an offense as specified under Paragraph
N
Section
N
and fails to report it to the appropriate division within
N
hours of its perpetration is held liable and subject to summary epistoclasis—unless the Court finds mitigating circumstances as outlined under Paragraph
n,
small
n
.”

He put the volume away and watched me with his watery eyes for some time, then moved his lips:

“A little confession?”

I shook my head.

“Well then,” he coaxed, not discouraged, “a wee bit of a confession?”

“I have nothing to confess.”

“An infinitesimal confession?”

“No!” I yelled, furious. He blinked like a startled bird. “No?”

“No.”

“Not even yes?”

“No.”

“Look, I’ll help you. For example: ‘present at a party thrown by Professors
X, Y
and
Z
on such and such a day and hour et cetera and so on, I was made an unwilling witness of this, that, and the other.’—Well?”

“I refuse to make any such report.”

He stared at me with the wide, round eyes of a chicken.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked.

“Troublemaker,” he said and blinked again. “Let’s try something else, shall we? Here boy! Fetch! Roll over! Confess!”

“Stop it!”

“Or free association. Spy? Price? Conspire? Piracy? Perspire! Conspiracy!”

I was silent.

“Still no?”

He jumped up on the table, as if ready to hurl himself at me.

“Perhaps
this
will refresh the Count’s memory!”

And he held out a round box full of small black buttons.

“Oh,” I gasped. He jumped down and made a note of it, mumbling to himself: “Admits he knows Orfini…”

“I didn’t say that!”

“Oh?” he said with a wink. “Just
O
then?
O
as in zero, naught? Nothing more? A poor, homeless
O
? Come now, let’s give it a friend, a nice little
r … f
… Can’t you guess? A man of the cloth… Cross and double-cross…”

“No,” I said.

“No
O
,” he added. “Oh No.”

He was clearly enjoying himself. I decided to maintain a stony silence.

“Or how about a song?” he suggested. “ ‘Rub-a-dub-dub, two men in a tub…’ No? Do you know this one?—‘Hey, the Building, hey!’ ”

He waited.

“A tough nut to crack,” he said at last, inspecting the black buttons. “Tough and rough and full of bluff. Wants a Grand Inquisitor—Torquemada—Pontius Pilate.
Ecce homo!
What a shame! We’re fresh out of crosses around here—no nails, no thorns, no spear in the side—sorry! Only the boss gets a little cross…”

He took to filing his nails again, and after a while grumbled:

“Please leave.”

“I can go?” I asked, amazed.

He ignored me. I looked around for the door—there it was, and it was even open. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? At the doorway I looked back—he was completely absorbed in his nails. Outside was a large, cold corridor. After walking some distance, I became aware of something heavy at my sides, attached and swinging like buckets of water. I stopped and looked down—my hands, incredibly swollen and dripping sweat—“Oh,” I thought. But why Oh? Why not Ah? I didn’t have to oh, I could have ahhed—ah, what a bastard I was! A regular bastard—but why regular—regulation—when I could be an uncommon bastard, bastard with a capital
B, B
as in bomb and boom?!

Door, elevator, corridor, door, elevator again, sweetly descending and how nice it is when old friends get together for a little third degree. I took a deep breath. Relief. Peace. No conspiracy, not a trace.

I was a Bastard, proud but still a little bashful.

And out the elevator—which level this? It mattered not. Take any door and turn the knob—

A pink room with plaster pilasters, paintings on the walls, flat Rembrandt-brown portraits in tulle and lace, and seated beneath the largest—a pretty girl, sweet sixteen and scared. I waited for her to speak—she didn’t—not bad—not bad—a bright face, golden bangs, the dark violet eyes of a distrusting child, full red lips, a schoolgirl’s dress with short sleeves and the nipples poking through, defiant. And the legs, the pink heels—the sandals had slipped off beneath my gaze—and those helpless little hands! “Ah,” I thought, “so white…” White? Wait! Ah! Lily white—the spy in the bathroom—on the agenda! The doctor, the plates, and now lily white…

She looked at me unblinking with her violet eyes, and I looked at her naked neck, so naked beneath that dark painting—a song in the night—not a bad metaphor either—I took a step toward her, a villainous step, I stabbed her with my eyes, and the quiescence of her flesh filled me with exquisite terror as I took another step and watched each nipple ticktock—ticktock—ticktock in time with the hammering heart. A frozen moment: The Rake’s Progress.

Another step—the knees touched—her head went back, seeking sanctuary in its mass of golden hair. I bent over. A slight tremble of the lips—the arms lay helpless—now I should deflower her—she expected no less—what else could I do under the circumstances? But perhaps she wasn’t really a little girl to be deflowered, perhaps she was the block where I would have to lay my head and make my last confession and await the ax. Why was she here, anyway?

“On the other hand,” I thought, peering into her golden lashes, “I’m here too and I’m innocent, so why shouldn’t she be innocent?” Was there no end to this analyzing, agonizing, temporizing? A man could go mad! Rape and be done with it!

Easy to say, not so easy to put into operation. A kiss was the obvious place to start—our breaths already mingled—but a kiss as a prelude to defloration—it wasn’t right, wasn’t right because, even in the most contrived and underhanded kiss lay something—something right—too right. A kiss was a sign, a symbol, an emblem, an allegory, and I was through with such games—I wanted to trample on her lily whiteness unequivocally, without qualification or reservation—for what is an outrage if it isn’t an outrage?

Forget the kiss then—and my hovering over her maiden modesty was false—a pose—“Better carry her off in my arms,” I decided, stepping back—a serious mistake—it looked too much like a retreat, vacillation—and where could I take her? There was only the armchair—other than the hard floor—and picking her up and throwing her back in the same chair would be ridiculous—an outrage cannot be ridiculous and be an outrage.

Then seize her with shameless brutality! The armchair was too low—so I kneeled—another mistake! This was a posture of humility, obedience—the noble knight requesting his lady’s favor before the fray. One could not violate one on bended knee—and violate I had to, and quickly, before she started to bawl—then we would have a sniveling brat on our hands and no more lily white!

Up her skirt, then? A ticklish business—what if she starts giggling—not as a virgin—but because it tickles? No lily white, no outrage—only a tickle and a giggle—? God in heaven!!

This was his work—that interrogator—he planted her here
—ex ungue leonem
—in that case, no going up her skirt, nothing underhanded, undercover—but bold, head-on action—bull by the horns—a frontal kiss, an all-out blitz-kiss—lightning and thunder, fire and brimstone, eye to eye and tooth to tooth! Passion!! Lust!! I swooped down—something was wrong—her mouth was full—white—a whiff of—of—what? Cheese! Cream cheese!!

Slowly, I got to my feet and brushed off my knees. That was that. Lily white—snow white—cream cheese—

On my way out I looked back: relieved, she resumed her chewing, brought her sandwich out of hiding. She hid it so it would be easier for me to—God in heaven!

I shut the door behind me and went quietly on my way, thinking of bastards. A shot rang out—nearby. I turned around, not in the mood for trouble—I had enough of my own—when I noticed three officers standing in front of a door with a cushion. I understood.

There were essentially two kinds of shooting. One, usually after breakfast, came in a deafening barrage—gunfire, screams, curses, ricocheting bullets, falling plaster. Those corridor battles were executed in great haste, ending with the coded groans of the dying and bells signifying the approach of the theologicals. On occasion, when elevator doors would accidentally open, you might see a corpse or two come tumbling down the empty shaft from some upper level—that’s how they got rid of them. But this was a single shot—and they were usually preceded by a small procession, no more than two or three officers carrying a revolver on a velvet cushion. They would enter an office, return without the revolver and wait at the door—a high-ranking officer got tassels on his cushion. Then the body would be removed during lunch, when no one was around to gawk.

Fifteen minutes before my rendezvous with the Judas priest. But why bother now? I had to think. Our conspiracy was not only known and tolerated, but ordered—the false conspiracy, that is. But beneath the falsehood we tried to build the truth. If I didn’t show up, it would look like I was afraid—and they might guess that I
was
afraid—so I had to go.

My sense of shame began to pass. I paced a quiet corridor between two bathrooms. I wanted so desperately to justify myself—I hit upon a thought, a hopelessly naïve but tempting thought—could this be a dream, an unusually persistent and perverse dream? Then even if I couldn’t wake up at once (the dream seemed too powerful for that), at least I would know, from now until it ended, that I wasn’t responsible. I stopped in front of a white wall, looked around to see that no one was coming, and focused my will on it—to soften it—such things usually work in dreams, even the worst nightmares. But it didn’t work—the wall was as hard as ever. Another possibility—I was in someone else’s dream—in which case, of course, the dreamer would have more control over the wall than I…

Impossible to prove, either way. I went back to the main corridor and took an elevator up to meet the priest. Why that lily white? Apparently to show me that even a Bastard couldn’t—couldn’t defy the Building. I could almost see that little interrogator now, wagging his finger at me in playful reproach—playful, like dead men dancing on air at the scaffold—

The elevator went up and up, the numbers jumped, the contacts clicked, the milky light dimmed and brightened, and suddenly I saw him—really saw him—through the crack in the door as the elevator climbed. He stood there in his trench coat, lost in thought—did he see me or not?

The elevator was slowing down. Through the crack I saw a pair of polished shoes, then a black coat, a row of buttons—a cassock! The priest! He was waiting for me, right at the door! The elevator jerked to a stop—but I pressed a button and sent it back down—not that I suspected treachery—I didn’t suspect treachery—but the pleasant motion of descending made me feel secure. Again the contacts clicked, the milky light brightened and dimmed—my small, cozy room was falling softly through the Building—at the bottom I pushed a button and went up again…

Levels passed, blank walls, floors, a pair of legs, a ceiling, another floor—and again the little interrogator In the trench coat waiting patiently for an elevator—and more walls, a curtain of stone lowered over the scene…

I held my breath—the eighth level was next, and the priest again, feet first, still waiting for me—so down again—the interrogator again—I watched them carefully from my hiding place, one at a time, a biologist taking samples.

Each, one at a time, stood casually, concertedly unconcerned—but I, able to jump from level to level and face to face, could see—to my horror—the composite: the interrogator’s upper lip and the priest’s lower lip made a smile, a smile spread over several levels—yet neither, singly, smiled—it was the
Building
that smiled! At the bottom I jumped out and ran off, followed only by an angry buzzing—they were buzzing for the elevator on all the levels now—but I was far away and free of them—