However, there could be no doubt that the distance between me and the unknown newcomer was diminishing with every throb of my pulse. Now no more than five or six walls separated us; he was going from door to door with the assured speed of a slight body. Cowering, riveted by his steps, everything tending toward the moment when our eyes would meet (this moment was speeding toward me like a motorcar), I prayed to God that these were not pupils with a crazed band of white around their central glimmer. I no longer expected, rather I knew that I should see him; my instinct, having replaced reason in these moments, spoke the truth, offering its blind face to the sharp blade of fear. The darkness was crowded with phantoms. I saw the gremlin that haunted a dark corner of the nursery, a phantom of the twilight, and, most horrible of all, more terrifying than a fall from a great height, was the obsessive fear that those footsteps would fall silent right at my door, that no one would be there, and that this absence of anyone at all would skim my face in a puff of air. I already found it impossible to imagine this being as a person, like me. The encounter was imminent; I had nowhere to hide. Suddenly the steps fell silent, stopping near the door, and for so long I heard nothing but the bustle of mice scurrying among the heaps of papers that I almost let out a scream. Someone hunched over seemed to be creeping noiselessly though the door with the intention of seizing me. The shock of a mad exclamation filling the darkness suddenly thrust me forward, arms outstretched—I staggered back, covering my face. A dancing torch revealed to me the whole chain of doors as far as I could see. It grew as light as day. I received a sort of nervous shock, but after a brief hesitation I pressed on. Then, from beyond the nearest wall a woman’s voice said: “Come here.” There followed a quiet, teasing laughter.
For all my amazement, I did not expect such an end to the torture I had just endured over what may have been an hour. “Who’s there?” I asked quietly, carefully approaching the door, behind which some unknown woman had revealed her presence with a beautiful and tender voice. Hearing her, I imagined her appearance to be commensurate with the pleasure of hearing her, and I trustingly drew nearer, listening to her repeating the words: “Come here, come here.” But I saw nobody behind the wall. The frosted-glass balls of the chandelier glittered below the ceiling, disseminating a nocturnal day among the black windows. Thus, asking, and each time receiving a response invariably from behind the wall of an adjacent room—“Come, oh, come on, quickly!”—I toured five or six rooms, in one of them catching my reflection in a mirror, watching as I carefully transferred my gaze from one void to another. It then seemed as if the shadows in the mirror’s depths were full of hunched, creeping women, one after another, in cloaks or veils that they pressed to their faces, concealing their features, and only their black eyes, lit by a smile under schemingly knit brows, flashed elusively. But I was wrong, for I turned around with such speed as would not allow even the most agile of creatures to escape the building. Weary and dreading, what with the excitement that was overwhelming me, something truly terrible amid these silently illuminated voids, I said at last in a sharp tone of voice:
“Show yourself, or I shan’t go any farther. Who are you and why are you calling me?”
Before any answer could come, an echo enveloped my exclamation in a vague and muffled reverberation. I detected a troubled alarm in the words of the mysterious woman when she beckoned me uneasily from an unknown corner: “Hurry, don’t stop! Come on, come on, don’t argue.” These words seemed to have come from somewhere alongside me—as quick as the splashing of water, and so clear in their half-whisper, as if they had been spoken directly into my ear. Yet in vain I rushed impetuously from one door to the next, throwing them open or else making a complex detour to try to catch the woman unawares as she made her slippery movements—everywhere I met only emptiness, doors, and light. This continued, like a game of hide-and-seek, and several times I let out an exasperated sigh, not knowing whether to go farther or to stop, to stop resolutely, until I saw the woman with whom I had been conducting this hopeless dialogue at a distance. If I fell silent, the voice would seek me out; it sounded ever more affectionate and anxious, always indicating the way and quietly exclaiming ahead of me, behind the very next wall:
“This way, hurry!”
Sensitive though I was to the tenor of a voice in general—particularly so in such states of extreme tension—I perceived neither mockery nor dissimulation in the elusive woman’s calls, in her importunate beckoning; although her conduct was more than astonishing, I had no reason to suspect anything ominous or malign, since I was ignorant of the circumstances causing this behavior. Rather, I might have suspected an insistent desire to communicate or show something to me in haste, with time pressing on. If I made a false move, landing in the wrong room, a musical interjection, accompanied by a rustling and rapid breathing, would pursue me: a soft and gentle “This way!” would put me back on track. I had already gone too far to turn back. I was drawn anxiously by the unknown, rushing across vast parquets, my eyes fixed in the direction of the voice.
“I’m here,” the voice said at last, in a tone that suggested the end of this adventure. This was at a point where the corridor crossed a staircase and there were several steps leading up to another corridor.
“Very well, but this is the last time,” I warned. She was waiting for me at the start of the corridor, on the right, where the light was at its weakest; I could hear her breathing and, climbing the staircase, I angrily surveyed the semidarkness. Both walls of the corridor were littered with piles of books, leaving only a narrow path between them. By the light of the solitary lamp dimly illuminating the staircase and the end of the passage, I could not make anyone out at a distance.
“Where are you?” I said, straining my eyes. “Stop, you’re going too quickly. Come here.”
“I can’t,” the voice replied quietly. “Can you really not see me? I’m here. I’m tired, so I sat down. Come closer.”
It really did sound as if she were nearby. I would have to turn the corner. Beyond lay darkness, underscored by the bright light of a door at the end. Stumbling over books, I tripped, staggered, and, falling to the floor, toppled over a shaky pile of ledgers. They went tumbling down, far below. As I fell, my hands met a void, and I almost disappeared entirely over the edge of this sheer drop, from where, to my involuntary shriek, the sound of an avalanche of books soared up. I saved myself only because I happened to fall before I reached the edge. If terrified awe at this moment stopped me from drawing conclusions, then laughter, that cold, merry snicker on the far side of the trap, immediately clarified my role. The laughter retreated, abated, to the point where I could no longer hear its cruel intonations.
I took care not to make any sudden movement, any noise that could cast doubt on my supposed disappearance; understanding the game, I remained absolutely still, meaning to confirm the assumption of the desired outcome. I could not resist peering, however, into the bed that had been prepared for me. Nothing for the moment indicated that I was being observed, and, taking great care, I lit a match. I saw the rectangle of a gaping hole in the floor. The light did not reach to the bottom, but, recalling the time it had taken for the books to plummet before crashing below, I estimated a drop of forty feet. Which meant that there must have been a hole in the floor directly below, identical to this one, forming a double aperture. I was disturbing somebody. I understood this, in possession now of substantial evidence, but what I did not understand was how this airiest of women could have flown across the vast aperture, whose walls had no border along them that allowed one to circumvent it; it reached six arshins in width.*
Waiting for the incident to lose its perilous freshness, I crawled back to the spot where the distant light allowed me to distinguish the walls, and there I stopped. I did not dare return to those lit places. Nor, however, was I capable now of leaving the stage where I had scarcely finished playing out the finale of the fifth act. I had touched on things much too serious to prevent my going. Not knowing where to begin, I trod
gingerly in the opposite direction, hiding at times in the recesses of the walls so as to be sure that there was nobody coming. In one of these recesses I found a washbasin, with water dripping from the tap; beside it there hung a towel bearing the damp traces of just-wiped hands. The towel was still swaying; somebody was absconding, perhaps ten paces away from me, and only by chance had he escaped unseen, just as I had. I did not want to risk tempting this place any longer. Petrified by sight of the just-touched towel before me, I finally set off, breath bated, spotting in the shadow of a recess a narrow side door that was almost blocked up by papers. With no little effort, I was able to force the door open a fraction in order to squeeze through. I exited through the door, as though through a wall, and found myself in a quiet, well-lit, deserted passageway, very narrow, with a turning not far ahead. I did not want to risk peering around it, however, preferring to stand there, propping myself up against the wall, in the niche of a boarded-up door.
No sound, no phenomenon intelligible to the senses could have escaped me during those moments, since I was strained, on edge. My whole being was centered in my hearing and breathing. Life on earth seemed to have vanished—such was the silence that met my eye in the light of the white, desolate passageway. Apparently every living creature had forsaken this place or else was in hiding. Exhaustion overwhelmed me; with the impatience of despair I began to reach out for any sound at all, if only to banish the torpid light that clenched my heart in its silent vice. All of a sudden there were more than sufficient sounds to calm me—if I can employ the phrase “calm amid a storm”—an abundance of steps rang out behind the wall, coming from the lower floors. I could hear voices, exclamations. To the sounds of this nascent, unseen animation were added those of instruments being tuned: a violin squeaked, a cello, a flute, and a double bass strung out a few disparate measures, only to be drowned out by the racket of furniture being moved.
In the middle of the night—I did not know the hour—these signs of life three floors below, after the episode with the gaping hole, sounded like a new threat. Perhaps tireless peregrinations would have eventually led me to an exit from this labyrinthine building, but not now, now that I knew what could be lying in wait for me behind the very next door. I could establish my position only if I determined what was going on downstairs. Listening carefully, I ascertained the distance between myself and the sounds. It was significant, reaching up from beyond the wall facing me.
I stood for so long in the doorway, but in the end I managed to muster the strength to leave, with the aim of seeing whether I could do something. After a few furtive steps, I noticed to the right of me a glazed aperture in the wall, no bigger than a ventilation window; it was within reach just above my head. A little farther on I discovered a portable folding ladder of the sort used by decorators to treat the afflictions of ceilings. Having dragged over the ladder as carefully as I could, without knocking it, without hitting the walls, I placed it beside the aperture. Despite how dusty the glass was on both sides, after wiping it with the palm of my hand as best I could, I was able to see, but still as if through smoke. My hypothesis, founded on the basis of my hearing, was confirmed: I was looking at that same central hall of the bank where I had been earlier that evening, but I could not see the lower half of it, since my little window looked onto the gallery. The vast stucco ceiling hung very low over my head; the balustrade right before my eyes obscured the depths of the hall, and I could see only the upper portion of the faraway columns on the opposite side. Throughout the length of the gallery there was not a soul present, while downstairs, tormenting me with its invisibility, a merry crowd thronged. I could hear laughter, cheers, chairs being moved, unintelligible snippets of conversation, and the calm clatter of the downstairs doors. The chink of crockery rang out with conviction; people coughing, clearing their noses, a chain of light and heavy footsteps, melodic, malicious intonations: yes, it was a banquet, a ball, a gathering, guests, a celebration—you name it—anything but the vast, cold emptiness of old, with its stagnant echo amid the dust. The chandeliers discharged their brilliance in a fiery pattern below, and although there was light in my dungeon, too, the brighter light of the hall fell across my hand.
Almost certain that nobody would come here, to my nook, which had more in common with a cramped attic than it did with the sumptuous expanse of the chamber below, I ventured to remove the glass. The frame, held in place by two crooked nails, was slightly loose. I extracted the nails and got rid of the barrier. The noise now became palpable, like the wind in one’s face; while I was attempting to unravel its particularities, the band struck up a music-hall number, but their playing was so strangely muted, as if they could not or did not want to let the music grow. The orchestra was playing con sordino, as if by order. However, the voices that were being drowned out by the band began to grow louder, making a natural effort to overcome the music, and the general sense of their words carried up to my refuge. Insofar as I could understand, the interest of various groups in the hall revolved around suspicious deals, although I caught only incoherent snatches of conversation. Certain phrases resembled neighing, others a dreadful scream; the ponderous laughter of business mixed with a hissing. Women’s voices rang out with a tense and gloomy timbre, crossing from time to time into tempting playfulness with the depraved intonations of camellias. Occasionally someone’s solemn remarks would lead the conversation to the prices of gold and precious jewels; other words would make you shudder, alluding to a murder or some crime of a no less conclusive nature. Prison slang, the shamelessness of nocturnal streets, the false luster of reckless adventure, and the nervous prolixity of hunted souls mixed with the strains of another orchestra, to which the first was making subtle, playful replies.
There was a lull; several doors opened down in the faraway depths below, and it seemed as if new faces were making their entrance. This impression was immediately confirmed by the solemn exclamations I heard. After indistinct negotiations came the thunder of exhortations and invitations to listen. Somebody’s speech was already trickling there quietly, spattering like raindrops, making its way like a beetle among pine needles in a forest.
“All hail our Savior!” roared the assembly. “Death to the Rat-Catcher!”
“Death!” the women’s lugubrious voices rang out.
The echoes passed in a long howl before dying down. I do not know why, despite the dread attention I paid to what I heard, but at that moment I turned around, as if I were being watched; only I heaved a deep sigh of relief, for there was nobody standing behind me. I had time yet to think of a way to conceal myself: two individuals had clearly passed around the corner without the slightest suspicion of my presence. They paused. Their gentle shadow fell across my dungeon, but I examined it in vain, seeing in it only an indistinct mass. They struck up a conversation with the assurance of confidants who believe themselves to be alone. They were clearly continuing a conversation begun earlier. En route here their narrative had come to a halt at some unknown question, to which I now heard the answer. I remembered this dark, rasping promise word for word.
“He will die,” said one of them, “but not right away. Here is the address: apartment eleven, number ninety-seven on the Fifth Line. He has his daughter with him. This will be a great feat for the Liberator. The Liberator has come here from a faraway land. His journey was wearying, and he is expected in a great many cities yet. Tonight everything shall be accomplished. Go and inspect the passage. So long as nothing threatens the Liberator, the Rat-Catcher is a dead man, and we shall see his vacant eyes!”
VIII.
I listened to this vengeful tirade, with one foot already on the floor, for no sooner had I heard the address of the girl repeated to the letter—the girl whose name I had not managed to learn today—than a blind force pulled me down, impelling me to flee, to hide, and to fly as a messenger to the Fifth Line. Even under the most reasonable scrutiny, these numbers and the street name could not tell me whether another family lived in the apartment—yet it wa
s enough that I was thinking about her and the fact that she was there. In my terror, my infernal haste, as if a fire had broken out within me, I missed the last step; the ladder slipped with a clatter, my presence was revealed. I froze at first, like a fallen sack. The lights went out instantly; the music instantly faded, and a cry of fury outstripped my blind escape through the narrow passageway, where, I do not recall how, I crashed into the door by which I had entered. With inexplicable strength, in a single burst of effort I pushed away the rubbish blocking it and ran out into that unforgettable corridor with the aperture. I was saved! The dawn was breaking with its first glimmers of gray light, outlining the doorframes; I could have run until I was out of breath. But instinctively I sought ways up, not down, bounding up the little steps and along the empty passageways. Sometimes I thrashed around, spinning on the spot, taking doors I had already tried for new ones or finding myself at a dead end. It was terrible, like a nightmare, especially since I was being pursued—I could hear them scurrying back and forth, the sound of the chase, which was driving me mad and from which there was no escape. The noise rose and fell with the irregularity of traffic in the street, sometimes coming so close that I jumped behind a door, or else it tracked me in a parallel race, as though promising to broadside me at any moment. I grew weak, paralyzed by fear and the never-ceasing tumult of the floors echoing. But now I was running through the top floor. The final stairway I spotted led up through the ceiling via a square opening; I threw myself up it, feeling as though I was being struck in the back—so quickly had my assailants closed in on me. I found myself in the suffocating dark of an attic, immediately toppling over everything that dimly showed white about either side of the hatch; these proved to be a stacks of window frames, which only the strength of my despair allowed me to move in a single stroke. They lay there, scattered in all directions, their sashes an impassable thicket. This being done, I ran over to a far-off dormer window, in the gray light of which I espied barrels and boards. The way was incredibly cluttered. I leaped over a forest of beams, boxes, brickwork, pits, and piping. At last I made it to the window. The freshness of the open air exuded the calm of deep sleep. Beyond the far roof, an indistinct, rose-colored shadow loomed; there was no smoke coming from the chimneys, nor could I hear any passers-by. I climbed out and made my way over to the funnel of a drainpipe. It was loose; its fixings rattled when I began to climb down it; halfway down its cold iron acquired a coat of dew, and I slid fitfully down, barely able to maintain my grip. Finally, my feet touched the sidewalk; I hastened toward the river, fearing to find the bridge raised, and so, as soon as I caught my breath, I made a dash for it.
Fandango and Other Stories Page 23