The Tenant

by Roland Topor

  Had this whole enormous machine been set in motion for no purpose except to punish him? Why such an effort, just for him? Had he done something to deserve it? Why should he be their chosen victim?

  He shook his head. No, that wasn’t possible. There must be something else.

  Another question came to mind: Was he the first victim?

  And then another: Was it really Simone Choule he had seen beneath the bandages in the hospital? And if not, how had they transformed her?

  How long had the trap been functioning? How long was the list of tenants thus destroyed or transformed? Had they all chosen the same end as Simone Choule, or had some of them been charged with the task of perpetuating the deceased? Was this their way of reproducing themselves, of continuing their species? And in that case, had Simone Choule been a party to the conspiracy? Were they all some sort of creature produced from endless mutation, or were they simply murderers? Trelkovsky thought of the former tenant as he had last seen her, shrouded in bandages, her mouth gaping.

  Would one of the neighbors commit suicide? Oh, no—Simone Choule was a victim, not an executioner.

  He crushed the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray. Why? Why should they want to transform him?

  Then his breathing stopped, his eyes opened wide with terror.

  The day when he came to resemble Simone Choule completely, totally, he would be forced to do as she had done. He would be forced to commit suicide. Even if he had no wish to do so, he would have nothing to say about it.

  He ran to the window. In the courtyard below, the workmen began to laugh as soon as they saw him. That was why they were repairing the glass roof! For him!

  He suddenly felt dizzy, and put out his hand to catch at the chair, sinking back into it before he fell.

  But he didn’t want to die! This was murder! He thought of going to the police, but realized they would be no help to him. What could he say to convince a policeman of all of this, or to a superintendent who was a friend of Monsieur’s Zy’s? But what else was there to do? Run away? Where to? Anywhere at all, it didn’t matter, just get out of this building while there was still time. But he couldn’t just throw away the money he had invested in the lease. There must be some solution. He sat by the window for a long time, thinking, and at last he found one that he thought might work.

  He would have to go on for a little while longer, letting them think the transformation was taking place, so they would have no cause for suspicion. In the meantime, he would find someone else to take the apartment and then go off without leaving any new address.

  There were two points to this solution which were not entirely satisfactory. The first was that the next tenant, coming into the apartment unwarned, would be the next victim; and the second was that the landlord might not give his consent to any transfer of the lease. It was impossible to do it without first notifying him. The ideal solution would have been to leave without notifying anyone—simply abandoning everything—but all of Trelkovsky’s savings had gone into buying up this lease. He would have nothing left to fall back on. His only chance lay in gaining time, and money.

  He decided to go downstairs and take a little walk through the streets of the neighborhood, painted and scented as he was. He would have to put up with the jeers of the children and the contempt of the unknowing passersby, but this was the price he would have to pay if he wanted to cling to some hope of saving his skin.

  Part Three

  THE

  FORMER TENANT

  12

  Revolt

  Ever since Trelkovsky had become aware of the existence of a plot to destroy him, he had derived a morbid pleasure from making the transformation of his character as complete and perfect as possible. Since they wanted to make him into someone else in spite of himself, he would show them what he was capable of by himself. He would beat them on their own ground. He would reply to their monstrous plan with one of his own.

  The shop he went into smelled of dust and soiled linen. The old woman who ran it did not seem in the least astonished by Trelkovsky’s appearance, and he decided that she must be accustomed to this sort of thing. He spent a good deal of time making a selection from the wigs she brought out to show him. They were more expensive than he had thought, but in the end he decided in favor of the most expensive one she had. When he tried it on, it felt like a headpiece of heavy fur. It wasn’t at all disagreeable. He left the shop without taking it off. In the breeze of the street outside, the long strands of hair slapped gently against his face, like the folds of a flag.

  None of the passersby seemed to pay any attention to him, although he had expected that they would stop and stare. He sought vainly for any trace of hostility in the way they looked at him. No—they were simply indifferent. And, in fact, why should they be anything else? In what way was he interfering with them—with their right to do as they pleased, to behave in whatever manner they might choose? In his present ridiculous garb, he was less of an annoyance to them than others might be, because he was no longer a full-fledged citizen, he had renounced some part of his rights. His opinion was no longer of any importance. It was not a flag that slapped against his face, but an old sheet, covering and modestly concealing his shameful existence. Very well, since that was the way it was, he would carry the thing to its logical conclusion. He would wrap his entire body in bandages, so that no one could see the leper he had become.

  He went into another store and bought a dress, some lingerie and stockings, and a pair of very high-heeled shoes. Then he returned to the apartment, eager to put his plan into effect.

  “As fast as I can,” he told himself. “So that they can see what I’ve become because of them. So that they’ll be frightened and ashamed. So they won’t dare even look me in the face.”

  He ran up the staircase as fast as the remnants of his fever permitted. When he closed the door behind him, his curious sense of excitement exploded into a hysterical burst of laughter. But his voice was too deep, too masculine; he would have to practice speaking in falsetto tones. He amused himself for a time by murmuring idiotic little female phrases.

  “Oh, but darling, she’s not as young as she pretends to be; she was born the same year I was,” Then suddenly, he cried, “I think I’m pregnant!”

  The use of an adjective so distinctively feminine produced an extraordinarily erotic reaction. He repeated it over and over to himself, alternately whispering confidentially and speaking it aloud. “Pregnant . . . Pregnant . . .”

  Then he tried others. “Beautiful . . . Adorable . . . Goddess . . . Divine . . .”

  He took the mirror down from the wall and stood it on the chest of drawers, so that he could follow the various stages of his transformation more closely. He was completely naked, except for the wig, which he had not wanted to remove. He got out his razor and shaving cream, and methodically shaved his legs from the ankle to the thigh. He pulled the girdle up over his hips, with the little wiggling motion he had seen women use, then pulled on the stockings, adjusting them carefully before attaching them to the little rubber snaps. The mirror presented him with an image of his upper thighs and his genital organs, hanging down beneath the girdle. That annoyed him. He clamped them between his thighs, trying to conceal them entirely. The illusion was almost perfect, but in order to maintain it he was forced to hold his thighs tightly together and move only in tiny steps. He abandoned this for the moment and slipped on the transparent lace panties, which felt infinitely more pleasant against his skin than the shorts he normally wore. Then he fastened the artificially shaped brassiere around his chest, and put on the slip and the dress. And finally, the high-heeled shoes.

  It was the picture of a woman he saw in the mirror now. Trelkovsky was astounded. Was it no more difficult than this to create a woman? He walked around the room, rolling his hips, trying to remember the way Stella walked. When he glanced over his shoulder and saw himself from the back, the image was even more real and more disturbing. He decided to imitate a number he had o
nce seen on the stage of a music hall. With his arms crossed in front of him he clasped his waist with both hands, so that, from the back, an audience would have had the impression of a couple dancing. But it was his own hands that were caressing this strange woman. He shifted the position of the right hand until he was able to slip it beneath the neckline of the dress and unfasten the brassiere. He was as tense and excited as if he were holding a real woman in his arms. Little by little, he removed all of the clothing, retaining only the stockings and the girdle when he stretched out on the bed . . .

  He was awakened by a searing pain whose source he could not at first identify. He wanted to scream, but the sounds became a gurgling bubble of blood. There seemed to be blood everywhere around him. The sheets were soaked with a mixture of blood and saliva. An intolerable aching throbbed in his mouth, but he dared not move his tongue to locate the roots of the pain. He staggered over to the mirror.

  Of course! He should have expected this. There was a gaping hole inside his mouth—one of his upper incisor teeth was missing.

  Sobs of pain and terror welled up in his throat, nauseating him. Without knowing what he was doing he was vomiting blood and weeping, lurching blindly from one end of the apartment to the other. His fear had become too great for him to contain, overflowing the limits of his consciousness, literally crushing him beneath its weight.

  Who?

  Had several of them come into the room, with one sitting on his chest to hold him motionless while the others rummaged in his mouth? Or had they delegated a solitary assassin to carry out the operation? And the tooth—where was it now?

  He ripped off the blood-soaked sheets and the pillow case, looking for it, and then suddenly realized that there was no need to search. He knew where the tooth would be. He was so certain of it that he did not even attempt to verify it at once. First he stood at the washbasin and rinsed his mouth slowly and carefully. After that, he moved the armoire away from the wall and extracted the two incisor teeth from the hole behind it. They were both covered with blood, and although he rolled them about in his palm and examined them lengthily he could not tell which of them was his. He lifted his hand abstractedly to the side of his face, spotting it with red.

  When did they plan to push him through the window? He should have known that acting as he had was dangerous. The more rapidly his transformation was accomplished, the sooner the execution would take place; he understood that only too well now. Instead of aiding and abetting the neighbors in their ghoulish work, he should be applying all of his strength to holding them back.

  What a fool he had been! He had given them reason to believe that the process of metamorphosis was as good as completed, and they were so confident of themselves and their methods that they required nothing more. Instead of behaving as he had, he should have been demonstrating to them that there was still a good deal of work to be done before they could hope to achieve their goal. Making a Simone Choule of a Trelkovsky was not as easy as all that! He would prove that to them, very shortly.

  He removed all trace of the make-up from his face, dressed in his own clothes, and went out. Was it simply a coincidence that Monsieur Zy opened his door just as he was passing? The landlord glanced at him irritably, and flicked one finger, presumably indicating that he wanted to talk to him.

  “Tell me, Monsieur Trelkovsky,” he said, “do you remember the conditions I mentioned to you when you first inquired about the apartment?”

  Trelkovsky had all he could do not to hurl an accusation of his own crimes directly in the landlord’s face. But he managed to control himself, and replied amiably, “Of course I remember, Monsieur Zy. Why do you ask?”

  “You recall what I said about animals—dogs, cats, or any other kind of animal?”

  “Certainly.”

  “What I said about musical instruments?”

  “I remember that very well, Monsieur Zy.”

  “And what I said about women; do you remember that?”

  “Naturally. You were very specific about that.”

  “In that case, why are you bringing women into the apartment?”

  “But I’ve never brought a woman to the apartment!”

  “Don’t try to get away with that,” the landlord snapped. “I know what I’m talking about. When I passed your door just a little while ago I distinctly heard you talking with a woman. Are you going to deny it?”

  Trelkovsky was momentarily staggered. Could it be that the objective of the plot was simply to evict him from the apartment? No, that wasn’t possible; there was more to it than that. But in that case, what did Monsieur Zy want of him now?

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Zy, but you’re mistaken. There was no woman in my apartment. Perhaps I was singing; I don’t remember.”

  “That wouldn’t have been much better,” the landlord said acidly. “But I distinctly heard a woman’s voice.”

  Again Trelkovsky had to restrain the urge to fling his knowledge of the truth at this man. But it was not so difficult this time; he was acquiring the habit.

  “Anyone can make a mistake, Monsieur Zy,” he said. “I would never go against your regulations by bringing a woman here. Perhaps you confused the sound you thought was coming from my apartment with the voice of someone else, on the staircase, or in another apartment. The acoustics in these old houses can play some very strange tricks!”

  With that, he turned his back on the landlord and continued down the steps, congratulating himself on this final remark. If Monsieur Zy wanted to play games, he would show him that he could play too! He was undoubtedly on his way, right this minute, to tell the others that the victim wasn’t quite ready for the scaffold. Trelkovsky had gained a small respite.

  He walked over to the café across the street. The waiter nodded to him, and without asking what he wanted or waiting to be told brought him a cup of chocolate and two biscuits. Trelkovsky made no attempt to interfere until they were actually placed before him. Then he said that all he had wanted was a cup of coffee. The waiter looked at him in astonishment.

  “But . . .” he said, gesturing at the cup, “you don’t want chocolate today?”

  “No,” Trelkovsky replied firmly. “I said I wanted a cup of coffee.”

  The waiter went to talk to the proprietor, who was standing at the cash desk. He could hear nothing of their whispered conversation, but he saw them glancing constantly in his direction. The waiter came back at last, looking annoyed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but the coffee machine isn’t working. Are you sure you don’t want chocolate?”

  “I wanted coffee,” Trelkovsky said, “but since that seems to be impossible, bring me a glass of red wine. I don’t suppose you have any Gauloises?”

  The waiter shook his head and stammered something about being out of them.

  Trelkovsky drank his wine slowly, enjoying it immensely, and then went back to his apartment.

  The next morning there was a summons from the local police station in the morning mail. He assumed that it was something to do with the robbery, but the superintendent corrected this impression immediately.

  “I’ve received several complaints about you,” he barked, with no preface whatever.

  “Complaints?” This was something for which Trelkovsky was totally unprepared.

  “Yes, and don’t look so surprised. I’ve been told a good deal about you, Monsieur Trelkovsky. Far too much, in fact. It seems you make a devil of a racket, every night.”

  “My God!” Trelkovsky blurted. “I’m sorry, superintendent, but you did surprise me. No one has ever said anything to me about this, and I’m not in the habit of making noise at night. I go to work every day and I have to get up very early. I have very few friends, and I never entertain at home. So you see, you did surprise me. You surprise me enormously.”

  “Perhaps,” the superintendent shrugged, “but I’m not interested in that. I just know that I’ve received complaints about disturbances during the night. It’s my duty to
see that law and order are maintained in this district, so I’ll tell you now, once and for all: stop whatever it is you are doing at night, Monsieur Trelkovsky. Trelkovsky—is that a Russian name?”

  “I think so, yes,” Trelkovsky murmured.

  “Are you Russian? Are you a naturalized citizen?”

  “No. I was born in France.”

  “Have you done your military service?”

  “I was discharged because of an accident, superintendent.”

  “Let me see your identity card.”

  Trelkovsky produced the card from his wallet, and the superintendent examined it carefully. When he handed it back, his expression made it clear that he had hoped to find something wrong with it.

  “You haven’t taken very good care of it,” he said. “It’s torn.”

  Trelkovsky smiled mournfully, hoping that this would be accepted as a form of apology.

  “Very well,” the superintendent said, “this time I’ll let you off with a warning. But don’t let me hear any more complaints about you. I can’t let people who only think of themselves disturb everyone else.”

  “Thank you,” Trelkovsky said, “but I assure you, superintendent, that I am a very quiet person. I don’t understand this at all.”

  The superintendent waved him away. He had wasted enough time with him already.

  Trelkovsky stopped at the concierge’s on his way back to the apartment. She had watched him approach the window without showing the slightest sign of recognizing him.