The Tenant

by Roland Topor

  Someone knocked on the door.

  He had no intention of answering, but he dragged two chairs across the room to reinforce the armoire.

  The neighbors upstairs pounded on the ceiling.

  All right, he was making a racket this time! They could go ahead and pound! If they thought for a minute that they could force him into surrender that way, they were sadly mistaken!

  The pounding on the floor beneath him was coming from the landlord.

  They were all in it now! But they were wasting their time. Trelkovsky was not going to be influenced by their pounding any longer. He would barricade himself in this room, in spite of them or anything they did.

  The knocking at the door was becoming more violent, but he paid no attention to it and went on establishing his system of defenses, utilizing everything he could find. He discovered a ball of heavy twine in the bottom of a drawer and used it to tie the armoire and the chairs together, making one unit of all of the separate elements. He did the same thing with the chest of drawers and the other objects he had placed in front of the window. As he worked, he heard something strike against one of the panes, and the sound of breaking glass. If they tried to get in through here, they would be too late!

  “You’re too late!” Trelkovsky screamed. “And I hope you kill yourselves getting down!”

  Another pane of the window broke. They were throwing stones at them.

  “I’ll defend myself, I warn you! I’ll defend myself to the end! It’s not going to be a game, you hear me! I’ll sell my skin dearly! I’m not a lamb you can just lead to the slaughter!”

  The reaction to his outburst was immediate. The pounding on the walls and the door stopped. There was silence everywhere.

  They must be holding a conference about what to do next. With some difficulty, Trelkovsky managed to climb inside the armoire and place his ear to the wall at its back. He was close enough to them this way, but he could hear nothing of their conversation. He clambered out and sat down on the floor in dead center of the front room, all of his senses alert and waiting. The minutes passed, interminably, but there was no sign of life from the neighbors. Could they have gone away?

  He smiled. That trap was a little too obvious! They were just waiting for him to open the door. But there was no danger of that. He was not going to move a finger.

  After two or three hours of silent, motionless waiting, he noticed the sound. The sound of water dripping slowly from a leaky faucet. At first he tried to ignore it, but the sound became too irritating. He stood up very slowly, and went over to the basin, walking as softly as he could. His fingers reached out to touch the faucet, and found it perfectly dry. But the moment he turned his back, the sound began again. In order to be absolutely certain, he held his hand beneath the faucet, listening intently. The dripping sound continued. It was coming from somewhere else.

  He made a complete circuit of the apartment, studying the walls and ceiling, searching for the origin of this persistent, nagging sound. He found it very quickly. Drops of some brownish liquid were filtering through one of the cracks in the ceiling of the back room. At varying intervals a single heavy drop would form, lengthen into a tear, and fall, splashing into a little puddle formed on the floor by the drops that had fallen before. The moonlight through the single uncovered chink of the window gave the puddle the appearance of a precious stone, a deep red ruby. Trelkovsky lit a match and bent down to study it. Yes, the liquid was a reddish color. Blood?

  He dipped a finger in it and then rubbed the finger against his thumb, trying to gauge the consistency of the liquid. This operation, however, told him absolutely nothing. He decided, against his will, that he would have to taste it. But he learned very little from that—it had almost no taste.

  He remembered then that it had rained a great deal in the past few days. Perhaps there was a leak in the roof . . . But this explanation seemed hardly feasible. There were three other floors between the roof and his ceiling. Of course, it was possible that water had worked its way down through some kind of continuing crack. That might be it . . .

  But suppose it was the blood of the prisoner he had seen slung across the executioner’s horse in the courtyard? Suppose his mutilated body had been left on the floor of the apartment above, just so that this would happen, so that Trelkovsky would know the fate that lay in store for him?

  The drops were falling more regularly now, the puddle was growing larger. Ploc! Ploc! The miniature waves rolled out across the dry surface of the floor, rhythmically, steadily, like an incoming tide. Could they be planning to flood the apartment, to drown Trelkovsky in blood?

  And what was this sound that had begun to echo the dripping from the ceiling? He went back to the washbasin. The faucet must somehow have loosened, because drops of liquid were falling steadily from it too. He tried to tighten it, hammering at it with his fist, but it was impossible. How could the washer have given out from one minute to the next, when the faucet was not even turned on?

  The two leaks seemed to be answering each other, creating the illusion of a dialogue between the two liquids.

  The ticking of the alarm clock had become incredibly loud, and Trelkovsky was suddenly conscious of the fact that the dripping sounds were synchronized with its steady ticking. He picked up the clock, intending to stop it, and then dropped it angrily on the bed and covered it with a pillow. There is no way to stop an alarm clock except by breaking it.

  Someone knocked at the door. The neighbors were returning to the attack. He glanced hastily around him, checking the condition of his fortifications. They seemed satisfactory. There was, however, that one unprotected chink at the window, because the chest of drawers was not quite wide enough to cover it completely. A very small form—a child or a monkey, for instance—might be able to get in through there. The thought worried him; there was no telling what these people would attempt.

  And then, just as he was staring at the narrow opening, wondering what he could do about it, he was horrified to see a tiny hand, brown and very hairy, reach through one of the broken panes and grasp the base of the framework. He seized the only kitchen knife he possessed and began hacking desperately at the thing. There was no sign of blood, and after a minute or two the hand released its grip on the sill and vanished. He waited for the sound of something falling on the glass roof, but all he heard was a burst of sardonic laughter.

  He realized then that the neighbors in the apartment beneath could very easily have placed a glove on the end of a long pole and lifted it up to his window, simply to frighten him. He put his eye to the open space between the chest of drawers and the wall, trying to see what was going on in the courtyard.

  The neighbors had apparently used the stratagem of the glove on the pole simply to attract his attention, because they were obviously waiting for him. They had prepared an extraordinary spectacle, and the moment he saw it he was convinced that its sole objective was to drive him out of his mind.

  A large number of wooden packing cases were strewed around the courtyard in stacks of differing heights, so that they looked like the row of skyscrapers on post cards of New York. And on top of each of the piles of cases squatted one of the neighbors. Some of them were directly facing him, others in profile, and still others sat with their backs to him. From time to time they pivoted slowly, changing their positions without seeming to move their limbs at all. Suddenly, an old woman stood up, and Trelkovsky recognized her at once as the Madame Dioz who had tried to get him to sign her petition. She was wearing a long, violet-colored dress, cut so low that it revealed the whole upper part of her withered breasts. She raised both of her arms toward the sky and began a heavy, awkward kind of dance, leaping clumsily from case to case. Each time she jumped from one to another she let out a raucous scream. “Youp!” she screeched, and then leaped into the air. “Youp!” and she leaped again.

  This ritual lasted until the bald neighbor sitting on the tallest pile of cases stood up and began swinging a heavy bell that gave out a deep and
echoing sound. The neighbors then hurriedly descended from their perches and disappeared, carrying the cases with them. The boy who had handed the black cloak to the executioner suddenly appeared in the deserted courtyard. He was carrying a long pole over his shoulder, and at the end of the pole hung a cage containing a live bird. A woman clothed in a flowing red chasuble trotted behind the boy, with her face thrust close against the bars of the cage. She was waving her arms in the air, imitating flight, and making hideous little chirping sounds, trying to frighten the bird. The boy made a complete circuit of the courtyard without once turning around to look at her.

  After these two came the pregnant women, their faces daubed with every shade of red, old men riding on the backs of other old men on their hands and knees, rows of little girls gesturing lewdly, and dogs as big as young steers.

  Trelkovsky clung to reason as tightly as though it were a life line. He recited the multiplication tables to himself, and when he had exhausted that he began on the fables of La Fontaine. He set himself to accomplishing difficult movements with his hands, verifying the proper co-ordination of his reflexes. Speaking aloud, pretending he was giving a lecture, he even drew up a complete picture of the political situation in Europe at the beginning of the nineteenth century.

  Morning came at last, and with it an end to the witchcraft of the night.

  As soon as he dared, Trelkovsky removed all trace of the make-up on his face, changed the remnants of the female clothing he still wore for his own, and moved the armoire away from the door. He raced down the staircase as fast as his feet would carry him, never even glancing to either side. Once, a hand reached out, trying to hold him back, but he was moving so fast that it failed to get a grip on his shoulder. He passed the concierge’s room at a dead run, and began running even faster as soon as he was in the street.

  A bus was stopped for a red light just ahead of him. He leaped onto the rear platform at the very moment it started off.

  He would forget about the lease, and about the savings he had exhausted to pay for it. His only chance of safety, now, lay in flight.

  15

  Flight

  To flee, to get away—that was all very well—but where?

  Trelkovsky went through a feverish review of every face he had known, trying to discover the one that might come to his aid. But they all seemed curiously cold, indifferent, or forbidding.

  He had no friends. There was no one in the entire world who cared. No, that wasn’t true—there were people who cared about him, but what they wanted was only his madness and death.

  Why should he try to save himself, when the effort was clearly useless? Wouldn’t it be preferable simply to extend his neck to the executioner? He might spare himself vain and endless suffering. He was terribly tired.

  One name flashed through his mind, bright and shining as the headlights of a car on a lonely road at night. Bright and shining as a star.

  Stella.

  She would not reject him, not Stella. She would simply ask him in, with no reticence, no foolish words. He was swept by a feeling of infinite tenderness for this girl, and his eyes filled with tears. Poor little Stella! So soft, so feminine, and as much alone in the world as he was himself. Stella, his guiding star.

  He had a sudden mental picture of her, walking alone on a cold, deserted beach. The sea was lapping at her feet. She was walking very slowly, as if she were in pain; she must be extremely weary. Poor little Stella—how far had she had to walk like this? And now there were two men on the beach, wearing boots and helmets. Without saying a word, they went up to the solitary figure of the girl, their whole attitude betraying their arrogance and unconcern. She understood their intentions at once. She began to plead with them, she fell on her knees, imploring them for mercy, but they simply stared down at her, unmoved by her tears and cries. They took out their revolvers and fired several bullets into her head. The frail body collapsed on the sand, curled up into a tiny ball, and then was motionless. Stella was dead. The waves washed across her legs and the hem of her skirt. Poor Stella!

  Trelkovsky was so overcome with pity that he was forced to hide his face in his handkerchief, attempting vainly to stem the flow of tears. Yes, he would take refuge with Stella.

  He wandered through the neighborhood where she lived for a long time, because he could not remember the name of her street.

  By the time he found it he was far less certain of his welcome than he had been at first. It was possible that she might not be at home. He had visions of standing in front of a closed door, after having climbed the stairs and knocked, consumed with hope and the thought of safety at last. And there would be no one there. He would knock again and again, unable to convince himself that there was no longer any hope. He would not dare go away, for fear she might open the door after he had left.

  He told himself that he must try to imagine every possible eventuality, so that fate could not take him by surprise. It was an old and firmly rooted belief of Trelkovsky’s that fate only intervened in cases of utmost emergency. Thus, if you could foresee misfortune and plan ahead, it could be avoided. He set himself to considering all of the possibilities.

  She might not be alone. She would open the door, just enough for him to see that she was lightly draped in a robe or dressing gown, and would not ask him to come in. He would be left standing on the threshold, fidgeting with embarrassment, not knowing what to do next. And finally he would turn and run away, scarlet with confusion, angry with her and with himself.

  She might also be ill, and there would be members of her family or friends staying with her. She would not recognize him, because of the fever, and the others would regard him suspiciously, as if he were some kind of criminal intent on taking advantage of a helpless girl.

  It was not at all impossible that the door would be opened by a man or a woman he had never seen before.

  “Mademoiselle Stella, if you please,” he would ask timidly, and the stranger would reply, “Stella? I don’t know anyone by that name. Stella who? Oh—the other tenant! She left yesterday. No, she won’t be coming back. She’s moved—we’re the new tenants. No, I don’t know her new address.”

  As it turned out, however, it was Stella herself who opened the door for him. There were little flecks of yellowish matter caught in the corners of her eyes, and her whole appearance somehow conveyed an odor of a bedroom and of dried sweat. She held the two ends of her dressing gown around her with one hand, while the other still rested on the doorknob.

  “Am I disturbing you?” he said stupidly.

  She shrugged slightly. “No. I was sleeping.”

  “I wanted to ask if you could do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Could I stay here with you for two or three days? I wouldn’t be any trouble, but if you can’t do it, just say so. I wouldn’t blame you.”

  Stella lifted a finger to clear the yellowish matter from her eyes, and stared at him in surprise. Then she shrugged again. “No,” she said, “it wouldn’t be any trouble. Are you having problems?”

  Trelkovsky nodded. “Yes. Nothing serious, though. It’s just that I don’t have an apartment any more.”

  “You haven’t slept tonight,” Stella said, and smiled. “You look tired. I’m going back to bed myself—if you want to sleep . . .”

  “Yes, thank you . . .” he murmured, abruptly conscious of his exhaustion.

  He undressed slowly, as slowly as possible. Dear, sweet little Stella! He wanted to savor the simplicity and kindness of her presence. She had acted exactly as he had hoped she would. When he took off his socks he noticed that his feet were dirty.

  “I’m going to freshen up a little,” he said, but she was already back in bed.

  When he joined her there, her eyes were closed. Was she really sleeping? Or had she wanted him to know that she was allowing him to sleep here, but only to sleep? His uncertainty was of short duration, because a moment later her soft hands were caressing his body. He wrapped his arms around her grateful
ly, holding her very close.

  When she got up next morning, he opened one eye, more for courtesy than any other reason. She kissed him lightly on the ear.

  “I have to go to work,” she whispered. “I’ll be back about eight o’clock tonight. It would be better if the neighbors don’t see you. If you go out, try to do it without being seen.”

  “All right,” he said.

  Then she was gone, and he was instantly wide awake, freed of any further need for sleep. He had done it! He was saved! He had an overpowering sense of well-being and security. He made a complete tour of the apartment, smiling blissfully at everything he saw. It was delightful here; it was neat, tidy, and reassuring. He spent the day reading and continuing his exploration of Stella’s private domain. He didn’t go out at all, not even to eat. He would have had to be a complete fool to leave this miraculous haven!

  Stella came back at seven-thirty, carrying a string bag filled with provisions. Two bottles of wine clinked cheerfully together in its recesses, as if they were toasting each other.

  “I don’t have the time to do any real cooking,” Stella explained as she took off her coat, “so I always buy canned things. I’m a great chef with cans!”

  He watched her as she began preparations for their dinner, feeling so filled with tenderness for her that he was almost sad.

  “I adore canned things,” he murmured, and after that he contented himself with just watching her as she came and went in the room. He was thinking of her thighs and her breasts. And to think that she had put all of this at his disposition, with no attempt at bargaining or haggling. He remembered the line of her back and her shoulders, finding it hard to believe that all of this body was actually there, occupied with preparing his dinner. Adorable Stella! He wondered why he could not remember her navel, and closed his eyes, trying to call up a picture of it. In vain. He had forgotten it.