Naturally, I was surprised by the notion of storing foodstuffs in a place where only mice (Murinæ) and rats (Mus decumanus) would feel at home. But a feeling of elation outstripped any of my thoughts, which, instead, like water behind a dam, barely filtered through this whirling apotheosis. Let no one say that emotions related to food are base, that appetite lays equal man and amphibian. In times such as these, our whole being takes wings, and joy shines no less brightly than the rising sun viewed from the summit of a mountain. The soul moves to the strains of a march. I was already drunk on the sight of this treasure, especially since each pannier offered a varied assortment of delights. One contained cheeses, an array of cheese—from dry green to Rochester and brie. The second, no less heavy, smelled of a delicatessen; its hams, sausages, cured tongues, and minced turkey sat snugly beside another basket that was tightly packed with conserves. The fourth groaned under the weight of a pyramid of eggs. I got onto my knees to take a look at the lower shelves. Here I discovered eight sugar loaves and a tea caddy, a little oak barrel with brass hoops containing coffee, and baskets filled with biscuits, cakes, and crackers. The two lowest shelves reminded me of a bar, for they offered exclusively bottles of wine that were neatly and tightly packed, like firewood. Their labels described every taste, every estate, every glory and guile of the winemaker.
I had, if not to hurry, then, at any rate, to set about eating, since plainly this treasure trove, bearing the fresh look of a well-thought-out store, could not have been left by someone with the aim of giving some chance visitor to these parts the pleasure of an enormous boon. Be it in the light of day or the dead of night, a person could show up with a scream and raised arms, if not with something worse—a knife, for instance. Everything bespoke the dark urgency of the situation. I had much to fear in these spaces, for I had arrived at the unknown. Meanwhile, hunger had begun to talk in its own language, and I, having closed the cupboard door, settled myself on what was left of the divan, surrounding myself with morsels placed on, instead of plates, large sheets of paper. I ate what was most substantial—that is, crackers, ham, eggs, and cheese, chasing it down with biscuits and port wine, each sip imparting a sense of marvel. At first I could not cope with the chills and nervous, heavy laughter, but once I had calmed down a little, adjusted a little to the dumbfounded wonder of these tasty treats, which no more than fifteen minutes ago had been the stuff of dreams, I mastered my thoughts and actions. I was soon sated, far sooner than I had expected when I began eating, because of my anxiety, which wore even upon my appetite. However, I had been famished too much to sit idly, and I was utterly delighted by the satiety, without that drowsy mental torpor that accompanies the daily ingestion of handsome dishes. Having eaten all that I took and then carefully destroyed all trace of my feast, I felt that this had been a good evening.
Meanwhile, no matter how I strained my mind, my guesses, like a blunt knife, of course only scratched the surface of the episode, leaving its true essence hidden to the uninitiated gaze. As I paced among the bank’s sleeping heaps, I perhaps quite rightly conceived how my shopkeeper was involved with this Klondike of stationery: from here one could extract and transport hundreds of cartloads of wrapping paper, so valued by merchants for the purposes of selling the customer short; moreover, the electric cords and the fittings would amount to more than a stack of banknotes; it was not for nothing that the cords and plugs here had been stolen from almost every wall that I set eyes on. Accordingly, I surmised that the shopkeeper was not the owner of these clandestine provisions; he was likely putting them to use elsewhere. However, I did not stray further than this: all my subsequent conjectures were vague and anonymous, as is the case after any discovery. The evidence of rats demonstrated that it had not been touched for some time; their teeth had left vast caverns in the hams and cheeses.
Satisfied, I set about carefully examining the cupboard, noticing much that I had missed in those first moments of discovery. Among the baskets lay bundles of knives, forks, and napkins; a silver samovar was hiding behind the sugar loaves; in a box a multitude of patterned glassware of various types clinked together. Apparently some society gathered here, one that pursued rakish or clandestine aims, seeking isolation and secrecy, perhaps some powerful organization with the knowledge and participation of the housing committees. If that was so, I had to remain on my guard. I carefully tidied up the cupboard as best I could, figuring that the insignificant quantity I had devoured for supper would hardly be noticed. However, without the slightest sense of guilt I selected a few other little provisions, together with another bottle of wine, which I wrapped up securely and stashed under a heap of papers at a bend in the corridor.
It goes without saying that in these moments I was in no mood to lie down, let alone sleep. In a long holder I lit a white cigarette whose fibrous tobacco gave off a subtle aroma. This was the only find that I truly appreciated as I stuffed all my pockets full of these glorious cigarettes. I was in a state of intoxicating, melodious excitement, and I believed I was destined to meet a string of resounding improbabilities. Amid such glittering confusion, I recalled the girl in the gray head scarf who had fastened my collar with the safety pin—could I forget that action? She was the only person about whom I thought in beautiful, touching terms. It would be pointless to list them, since, barely having been uttered, they would lose their captivating aroma. This girl—even her name was a mystery to me—had, in disappearing, left a trace like a trail of shimmering water, flowing into the sunset. All it had taken for her to produce this delicate effect was a simple safety pin and the sound of her concentrated breathing as she stood on her tiptoes. It was the truest form of white magic. Since the girl had also been in need, I longed to pamper her with my dazzling discovery. But I had no idea where she was, and I could not call her. Even a blessing of memory, were it to cry out the forgotten number, would not have helped me here with this great multitude of telephones, one of which inadvertently drew the attention of my eye: they did not work, could not work for obvious reasons. Yet I gazed at the instrument with a certain inquisitive doubt, in which rational thought played no part whatever. I reached out to it, feeling playful. The desire to do something foolish gave me no rest; like all nocturnal nonsense, it was embellished by the ephemera of sleepless fantasy. I convinced myself that the number would come to me if I physically placed myself in the situation of speaking over the telephone. Besides, I have long held these mysterious wall mushrooms with rubber mouths and metallic ears to be ambiguous objects—a type of superstition that has been inspired by, among many other things, L’Atmosphère by Flammarion and his story about lightning. I heartily recommend everyone reread this book and to ponder again the peculiarities of an electrical storm, particularly the behavior of ball lightning, which can, for example, plant a knife in a wall and hang a frying pan or a shoe from it, or turn over a tiled roof, so that the tiles are stacked in the reverse order with the accuracy of a schematic drawing, which is to say nothing of the photographs that lightning imprints on the bodies of its victims, photographs of the circumstances in which the misfortune occurred. They are always darkish-blue in color, like old daguerreotypes. Kilowatts and amperes say little to me. In my case, the instrument came not without the presentiment, the strange languor, the confusion of consciousness that accompany the majority of our absurd creations. I can explain this now, but back then I was merely like iron before a magnet.
I picked up the receiver. Mute against the indifferent wall, it seemed colder than it really was. With no more hope than a broken clock inspires, I lifted it to my ear and pressed the button. Was it a ringing in my head or an auditory memory? With a shudder, I heard a fly buzzing, that vibration of wires like the drone of an insect. This was the very absurdity of which I dreamed.
The particular effort required to understand how a worm can bore its way through even a marble sculpture undermines every illusion with a hidden source. The will to fathom the unfathomable did not number among my virtues. However, I checked myself. Movi
ng the receiver away, I reproduced this characteristic noise in my imagination and heard it for a second time only after I began listening to the receiver again. The noise did not skip and did not break off, nor did it weaken or intensify; in the receiver, as it should, an invisible expanse vibrated, awaiting contact. I was possessed by vague, strange notions, as strange as was the buzzing of this wire, in use in a dead building. I saw a jumble of wires that had been severed by a gust of wind and were establishing connections in untraceable points of their chaos: bundles of electric sparks, flying from the arched backs of cats bounding along the roofs, the magnetic flashes of streetcar cables, the weave and soul of a material imprinted with an angular futurist design. Such thoughts and visions did not exceed in duration a palpitation of my rearing heart; it was beating, tapping out in its untranslatable language the experience of nocturnal forces.
Then, rising up from beyond the walls, as luminous as a new moon, the image of that young girl appeared. Could I have imagined that the impression she made would be so vivid and implacable? A hundred-strong force tore through me, spinning and buzzing, when, as I stared at the number that had been effaced from the instrument, I led my memory through a tempest of figures, vainly trying to establish what combination of them reproduced the missing number. O false, fickle memory! It swears never to forget numbers, days, details, or dear faces, and answers doubt with a look of innocence. But the time will come when the credulous man will see that he has made a deal with a shameless monkey, who will give away a diamond ring in exchange for a handful of nuts. The features of a recollected face are vague and incomplete, the number is missing a digit, circumstances become jumbled, and a man, clutching his head in vain, is tormented by the slipperiness of memory. But if we remembered, if we could recollect everything, what kind of mind could endure with impunity a whole life in a single moment, and especially the recollections of emotions?
Like a madman, I kept repeating numbers, moving my lips to test their authenticity. At last a sequence matching my impression of the forgotten number flashed before me: 107—21. “One—zero—seven. Two—one,” I said aloud, listening to it, but not knowing for sure that I was not mistaken again. A sudden doubt blinded me when I pressed the button for a second time, but it was already too late—the buzzing echoed, and in the depths of the telephone there was a click, a change, and directly against the skin of my cheek a weary female contralto intoned dryly: “Switchboard.” “Switchboard! …” the voice impatiently repeated, but even then I did not speak straightaway, for my throat was choked from the cold, and in the depths of my heart I was still merely playing.
Whatever it was, my invocation of the spirits (ascribe them to L’Atmosphère or to the Kilowatts of the 1886 Company) was heard: I spoke, and they answered. The gears of the dilapidated clock had begun to turn. Above my ear the steel rays of hands resumed their movement. Someone had pushed the pendulum; the mechanism began to tick rhythmically. “One—zero—seven—two—one,” I said flatly, watching the candle burning amid the rubbish. “Group A,” came the irritated reply, whereupon the buzzing was severed by the distant movement of a weary hand.
I experienced a mental fever during these moments. I pressed the button with the letter A; as a result, not only was the telephone spurred into action, but this astonishing reality was further substantiated by the fact that the wires were crossed—a striking detail for an impatient soul. In an attempt to get A on the line, I pressed B. Then, crackling voices, like the prattle of a gramophone, burst forth into the rushing current, as though from a door that had been flung open—mysterious orators pulsating in my hand that clutched the receiver. They cut each other off with the haste and fierceness of people who have dashed out into the street. The medley of phrases recalled a chorus of rooks—“A-la-la-la-la!”—some invisible creature shrieked in the background of another person’s slow, sober baritone, whose words were broken by pauses and mellifluously expressed punctuation. “I cannot give …”—“If you look …”—“One of these days …”—“I’m saying that …”—“Are you listening? …”—“Thirty by five …”—“The all-clear …”—“The car has been packed off …”—“I don’t understand a thing …”—“Hang up …” Like the humming of a mosquito, groans, distant lamentations, laughter, sobbing, the strains of a violin, the sound of unhurried steps, rustling and whispering faintly crept into this hypnotic bazaar. Where, in which streets, were these words of care, these cries, these exhortations and complaints being heard? At last there came a matter-of-fact click, the voices disappeared, and through the din of the line appeared that same voice, saying: “Group B.”
“A! Give me A!” I said. “The lines are crossed.”
After a silence, during which twice the din abated, a new voice announced in a softer and more signsong tone: “Group A.”
“One—zero—seven—two—one,” I enunciated as clearly as I could.
“One—zero—eight—zero—one,” the operator vacantly repeated in an attentive tone of voice. I scarcely managed to hold back the ready, ruinous correction, yet this error had undoubtedly restored the forgotten number; no sooner had I heard it than I recognized it, remembered it, just as we recognize a familiar face.
“Yes, yes,” I said in a state of extreme excitement, as though I were running high up along the edge of a dizzying cliff. “Yes, that’s it exactly. One—zero—eight—zero—one.”
Hereupon everything stopped dead in and around me. The sound of the transmission clenched around my heart like a rush of cold waves; I didn’t even hear the usual “I’ll try now” or “I’ve connected you”—I do not recall what was said. I heard the intense trilling of birds. Feeling faint, I leaned against the wall. Then, after a chilling pause, a sober little voice, as fresh as fresh air, said warily:
“Let me check. I know it’s out of order, but didn’t you just hear it ring? Hello, who’s speaking?” she said, apparently not expecting a reply and, just to be on the safe side, in a frivolously severe tone of voice.
Nearly shouting, I said:
“We spoke at the market. I went off with your safety pin. I was selling books. I beg you, try to remember. I don’t know your name—tell me that it’s you.”
“It’s a miracle,” the pensive voice replied with a cough. “Wait, don’t hang up. Let me think. Did you ever see the likes of it, Father?”
This last phrase was not directed at me. A man’s voice replied to her indistinctly, evidently from another room.
“I remember meeting you,” she once again addressed my ear. “But I don’t remember any safety pin. Ah, yes! I didn’t know you had such a formidable memory. But how odd it is that I’m talking to you—our telephone is out of order. What’s going on? Where are you calling from?”
“Can you hear me well enough?” I replied, dodging the question, as though I had failed to understand what she was asking, and, having received her confirmation, I continued: “I don’t know whether we’ll be able to talk for long. I have my reasons for not dwelling on this. Like you, there are a lot of things I don’t understand. That’s why you must give me your address at once; I don’t have it.”
For some short while the current hummed monotonously, as though my last words had interrupted the connection. Again a distance fell between us like a blind wall—a repugnant feeling of frustration and shameful yearning almost abashed me enough to launch into an unseemly diatribe on the nature of telephone conversations, which do not allow one to express freely all the shades of the simplest, most innate feelings. In some instances a face and words are inseparable. Perhaps this is the very thing that she, too, was pondering as the silence continued, after which I heard:
“Why do you want to know? Oh, very well. Take it down then.” She said this not without cunning. “The address is: apartment eleven, number ninety-seven on the Fifth Line.* Only why, why do you need my address? Frankly, I don’t understand. I’m at home in the evenings …”
I continued to hear the unhurried music of the voice, but suddenly it rang out
, quiet and muffled, as though it were in a box. I could hear her talking, apparently telling me something, but I could no longer make out the words. Her speech flowed farther and farther away, growing ever more indistinct, until it became like the patter of raindrops—at last the barely audible pulsing of the current led me to understand that the apparatus had stopped working. The connection disappeared and the instrument fell obtusely silent. Before me stood the wall, the box, and the receiver. The nocturnal rain drummed against the glass pane of the window. I pressed the button; it gave out a jangle and stopped. The receiver was dead. The spell was broken.
But I had heard and I had spoken; what had been could not be denied. My impressions of these minutes had come and gone in a whirlwind; I was filled with its echoes still, and I sat down, suddenly exhausted, as though from climbing a steep staircase. What was more, I was only at the start of my adventure. Its progress began with the sound of distant footsteps.
VII.
Still a long way off—was it not from the very point where I had begun my journey? or perhaps from the opposite direction?—either way, at the significant distance from which one first catches these sounds, I could hear the approach of unknown footsteps. Insofar as I could ascertain, someone was walking alone, treading nimbly and lightly, along a familiar path, through the darkness and possibly lighting the way with a lamp or a candle. In my mind’s eye, however, I saw him carefully scurrying about in the darkness, on the alert and looking around as he went. I do not know why I imagined this. I sat there, frozen and alarmed, as though gripped from afar by the tips of giant pincers. I became flooded with anticipation, which caused my temples to ache; I was in a state of fear that stripped me of any ability to resist. I would have been calm, or at least have begun to calm down, had the footsteps been receding, but I could hear them getting more and more distinct, drawing closer. My ears tormented, I was lost in conjecture, wondering about the purpose of this long, agonizing peregrination through the deserted building. Already the presentiment that I would not manage to avoid an encounter grazed my consciousness, horrifying me; I stood up and sat down again, not knowing what to do. My pulse followed the articulation or pauses of the steps exactly; however, having at last mastered the gloomy inertia of my body, my heart began beating violently, so that I could feel my condition with every throb. My impulses were contradictory. I hesitated: should I snuff out the candle or leave it burning? Lacking any rational indication, it was the very notion of taking action that seemed to provide a reasonable means of escaping this dangerous encounter. I did not doubt that this encounter would be dangerous or distressing. I groped for solace among the uninhabited walls and longed to retain the nocturnal illusion. At one point, endeavoring to tread noiselessly, I passed through a door so as to see in which of the adjoining rooms I could hide, as though the room in which I had been sitting, with my back shielding the candle, were already scheduled for a visit and somebody knew that I was there. I abandoned this, realizing that in making these transitions I was acting like a gambler at the roulette wheel, who, having changed his numbers, sees in exasperation that he has lost only because he changed his bet. The most prudent option would be to sit and wait with the candle extinguished. And that is what I did. I began to wait in the dark.
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