The Book of Lies

by Agota Kristof

  He says, "I'm waiting for my mother. When there are parties she has to stay to help serve and to do the dishes."

  "So? All you have to do is stay home and sleep quietly."

  "I can't sleep quietly. I'm afraid something will happen to my mother. We live far away from here and I can't let her walk alone. There are men who attack women walking alone at night. I saw it on television."

  "And children aren't attacked?"

  "No, not really. Just women. Especially if they're pretty. I could defend myself. I can run very fast."

  We wait. Slowly silence descends inside the hotel. A woman comes out, the one who brings me coffee in the morning. The little boy runs to her and they go off together, hand in hand.

  Other staff members come out of the hotel and quickly fade into the distance.

  I climb up to my room.

  The next day I go see the bookseller.

  "It's impossible for me to stay in the hotel any longer. It's too crowded and there's too much noise. Would you know of anyone who might rent me a room?"

  She says, "Come live at my place. Here, upstairs."

  "I would be disturbing you."

  "No, not at all. I'll live at my daughter's, it's not far from here. You'd have the whole floor. Two rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom."

  "For how much?"

  "How much do you pay at the hotel?"

  I tell her. She smiles.

  "Those are tourist prices. I'd let you live here for half that much. I'd even clean up for you after I closed the shop. You're always out then anyway, so I wouldn't disturb you. Would you like to see the apartment?"

  "No, I'm sure it will be fine. When could I move in?"

  "As early as tomorrow, if you like. All I have to do is collect my clothes and my things."

  The next day I pack my suitcase and settle my bill at the hotel. I arrive at the bookseller's just before it closes. The bookseller hands me a key.

  'That's the key to the front door. It's possible to get up to the apartment directly from the store, but you'll be using the other door, the street door. I'll show you."

  She closes the shop. We climb up a narrow staircase lighted by two windows that look onto the garden. The bookseller explains to me, "The door to the left is the bedroom, across from the bathroom. The second door is the living room, from which you can also pass through into the bedroom. The kitchen is at the end. There's a refrigerator. I've left some food in it."

  I say, "I only need coffee and wine. I eat my meals in bars."

  She says, "That's not very healthy. The coffee is on the shelf and there's a bottle of wine in the fridge. I'll go now. I hope you like it here."

  She leaves. I immediately open the bottle of wine; I'll lay in a supply tomorrow. I go into the living room. It's a big room, simply furnished. Between its two windows is a large table covered with a red plush cloth. I immediately cover it with my papers and pencils. Then I go into the bedroom, which is narrow and has only a single window, or rather a French door that leads out onto a little balcony.

  I lift my suitcase onto the bed and put my clothes away in the empty closet.

  I do not go out that night. I finish the bottle of wine and settle in front of one of the living room windows in a deep armchair. I watch the square, and then I go to sleep in a bed that smells like soap.

  When I get up around ten o'clock the next morning I find two newspapers on the kitchen table and a pot of vegetable soup on the stove. The first thing I do is make myself some coffee, which I drink while reading the newspapers. I have the soup later, around four in the afternoon, before going out.

  The bookseller does not disturb me. I only see her when I pay a visit downstairs. When I'm out she cleans the apartment, taking away my dirty laundry as well and bringing it back washed and ironed.

  Time passes quickly. I have to appear in the neighboring town, the regional capital, to have my visa renewed. A young woman stamps my passport RENEWED FOR ONE MONTH. I pay and thank her. She smiles at me: "Tonight I'llbe at the bar of the Grand Hotel. There'll be a lot of foreigners there; you might run into some compatriots."

  I say, "Yes, perhaps I'll come."

  I immediately take the red train back home to my town.

  The following month the young woman is less amiable; she stamps my passport without saying a word. The third time she crisply warns me that a fourth time will be impossible.

  Toward the end of summer I have almost run out of money; I am forced to economize. I buy a harmonica and play in bars, as I did in my childhood. The patrons offer me drinks. As for meals, I am content with the bookseller's vegetable soups. In September and October I am no longer able to pay my rent. The bookseller does not ask me for it; she continues to clean, to do my laundry, to bring me soup.

  I don't know how I'llget by, but I don't want to return to the other country; I must stay here, I must die here, in this town.

  My pains have not reappeared since my arrival despite my excessive consumption of alcohol and tobacco.

  On the thirtieth of October I celebrate my birthday with my drinking friends in the town's more popular bars. They all pay for me. Couples dance to the sound of my harmonica. Women kiss me. I am drunk. I begin to talk about my brother the way I always do when I've drunk too much. Everybody in town knows my story: I'm looking for my brother who I lived with here, in this town, until I was fifteen. It is here that I must find him; I am waiting for him and know that he will come when he hears that I have returned from abroad.

  All this is a lie. I know very well that I was already alone in this town, with Grandmother, that even then I only fantasized that there were two of us, me and my brother, in order to endure the unbearable solitude.

  The bar quiets down somewhat around midnight. I no longer play, I just drink.

  A scruffy old man sits down in front of me. He drinks from my glass. He says, "I remember you both very well, your brother and you."

  I say nothing. Another man, a younger one, brings a liter of wine to my table. I ask for a clean glass. We drink.

  The younger man asks me, "What would you give me if I found your brother?"

  I tell him, "I have no more money."

  He laughs. "But you can wire for money from abroad. All foreigners are rich."

  "Not me. I couldn't even buy you a drink."

  He laughs. "It doesn't matter. Another liter, on me."

  The waitress brings more wine and says, "That's the last one. I can't serve you anymore. If we don't close up we'll get into trouble with the police."

  The old man continues to drink next to us, saying from time to time, "Yes, I knew you wel), you two, you were already pretty wild in those days. Yes, yes."

  The younger man says to me, "I know that your brother is hiding in the forest. I've sometimes seen him off in the distance. He's made clothes out of army blankets and he goes barefoot even in winter. He lives on herbs, roots, chestnuts, and small animals. He has long gray hair and a gray beard. He has a knife and matches, and he smokes cigarettes that he rolls himself, which proves that he must come into town sometimes at night. Maybe the girls who live on the other side of the cemetery and who sell their bodies know him. One of them at least. Perhaps she sees him secretly and gives him what he needs. We could organize a search. If we all look for him we could trap him."

  I stand up and hit him.

  "Liar! That isn't my brother. And if you want to trap anyone, count me out."

  I hit him again and he falls from his chair. I tip over the table and keep screaming: "He's not my brother!"

  The waitress shouts in the street: "Police! Police!"

  Someone must have telephoned because the police arrive very quickly. Two of them. On foot. The tavern falls silent. One of the policemen asks, "What's going on? This place should have closed up long ago."

  The man I hit whimpers, "He hit me."

  Several people point at me: "It was him."

  The policeman picks the man up. "Stop complaining. You're not even scratched. And you
're plastered as usual. You'd better go home. You'd all better go home."

  He turns to me. "I don't know you. Show me your papers."

  I try to escape but the people around me grab me. The policeman digs through my pockets and finds my passport. He studies it for a long time and says to his colleague, "His visa is expired. Has been for months. We'll have to bring him in."

  I struggle but they put handcuffs on me and lead me out onto the street. I stagger and am having trouble walking, so they practically carry me all the way to the station. There they take off my handcuffs, lie me down on a bed, and leave, shutting the door behind them.

  The next morning a police officer questions me. He is young, his hair is red, and his face is covered with red spots.

  He says to me, "You have no right to remain in our country. You must leave."

  I say, "I don't have money for the train. I don't have any money at all."

  'I'll notify your embassy. They'll repatriate you."

  I say, "I don't want to leave. I have to find my brother."

  The officer shrugs. "You can come back whenever you want. You could even move here permanently, but there are rules for that. They'll explain to you at your embassy. As for your brother, I'll look into the matter. Do you have any information about him that could help us?"

  "Yes, I have a manuscript written in his own hand. It's on the living room table in my apartment above the bookseller's." "And how did you come into possession of this manuscript?" "Someone left it in my name at the reception desk."

  He says, "Odd, very odd."

  One morning in November I am summoned to the policeman's office. He tells me to sit and hands me my manuscript.

  "Here, I'm giving it back to you. It's just fiction, and it has nothing to do with your brother."

  We are silent. The window is open. It's raining and cold. At last the officer speaks. "Even as far as you're concerned we haven't found anything in the municipal archives."

  I say, "Naturally. Grandmother never declared me. And I never went to school. But I know that I was born in the capital."

  'The archives there were totally destroyed by the bombing. They're coming for you at two this afternoon."

  He added that very quickly.

  I hide my hands under the table because they are shaking.

  "At two? Today?"

  "Yes, I'm sorry. It's so sudden. But I repeat, you can come back whenever you like. You can come back permanently. Many emigrants have. Our country currently belongs to the free world. Soon you won't even need a visa."

  I tell him, "That will be too late for me. I have a bad heart. I came back because I wanted to die here. As for my brother, perhaps he never existed."

  The officer says, "Yes, that's probably true. If you keep going on about him people will think you're insane."

  "Is that what you think too?"

  He shakes his head. "No, I only think you're confusing reality with fiction. Your fiction. I also feel that you should return to your country, think things over, and then come back. Permanently perhaps. That's what I hope for you, and for me."

  "Because of our chess games?"

  "No, not just that."

  He stands and extends his hand.

  "I won't be here when you leave, so I'll say good-bye to you now. Return to your cell."

  I return to my cell. My guard says to me, "It looks like you're leaving today."

  "Yes, so it seems."

  I lie down on my bed and wait. At noon the bookseller arrives with her soup. I tell her I have to go. She cries. She pulls a sweater out of her bag and says, "I knitted you this. Put it on, it's cold out."

  I put on the sweater and say, "Thank you. I still owe you two months' rent. I hope the embassy will pay it."

  She says, "Who cares? You're coming back, aren't you?"

  'I'll try."

  She leaves in tears. She has to open her shop.

  My guard and I are sitting in my cell. He says, "It's funny to think that you won't be here tomorrow. But you'll come back, of course. Meanwhile, I'm canceling your debt."

  I say, "No, absolutely not. I'll pay you as soon as the embassy people come."

  He says, "No, no, it was all just for fun. And I cheated."

  "Ah, so that's why you always won."

  "Don't hold it against me. I just can't help cheating."

  He sniffles and wipes his nose.

  "You know, if I have a son I'll give him your first name."

  I tell him, "Give him my brother's name instead, Lucas. That would make me happiest."

  He thinks.

  "Lucas? That's a nice name. I'll talk it over with my wife. Maybe she won't object. Anyway, it's not up to her. I'm the one who decides in my house."

  "I'm sure of it."

  A policeman comes to collect me from my cell. My guard and I go out into the courtyard, where there is a well-dressed man with a hat, tie, and umbrella. The stones in the courtyard glisten in the rain.

  The man from the embassy says, "A car is waiting for us. I've already taken care of your debts."

  He speaks in a language that I shouldn't understand but do anyway. I motion to my guard.

  "I owe that man a certain amount. It's a debt of honor."

  "How much?"

  He pays, takes me by the arm, and leads me to a big black car parked in front of the house. A chauffeur in a visored cap opens the doors.

  The car pulls away. I ask the man from the embassy if we can stop for a minute in front of the bookseller's on Central Square, but he just looks at me uncomprehendingly and I realize that I have spoken to him in my old language, the language of this country.

  The chauffeur drives quickly; we pass the square, we're already on Station Street, and soon my little town is well behind us.

  It's hot in the car. Through the window I watch the villages parade by, the fields and poplars and acacias, my country's landscape beaten by the rain and the wind.

  I suddenly turn to the man from the embassy. "This isn't the road to the border. We're going in the opposite direction."

  He says, "First we're taking you to the embassy in the capital. You'll cross the border several days from now, by train."

  I close my eyes.

  The child crosses the frontier.

  The man goes first; the child waits. There is an explosion. The child approaches. The man is lying near the second barrier. Then the child makes his move. Walking in the man's footsteps, then over his motionless body, he reaches the other side and hides behind some bushes.

  A squad of border guards arrives in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. There is a sergeant and several soldiers. One of them says, "The poor fuck."

  Another: "What rotten luck. He almost made it."

  The sergeant cries out, "Stop your chatter. We have to collect the body."

  The soldiers say:

  "What's left of it."

  "Why?"

  The sergeant says: "Identification. Orders are orders. The body must be retrieved. Any volunteers?"

  The soldiers look at one another.

  "The land mines. We might not make it."

  "So what. It's your duty. Bunch of cowards."

  One soldier raises his hand. 'I'llgo."

  "Bravo. Go to it, son. The rest of you move back."

  The soldier walks slowly up to the shattered body, then breaks into a run. He passes by the child without seeing him.

  The sergeant screams: "The bastard! Shoot him! Fire!"

  The soldiers do not shoot.

  "He's on the other side. We can't shoot over there."

  The sergeant raises his rifle. Two foreign border guards appear on the other side. The sergeant lowers his weapon and hands it to a soldier. He walks up to the corpse, hoists it onto his back, returns, and drops it to the ground. He wipes his face with the sleeve of his uniform. "You'll pay for this, you sons of bitches. You're all nothing but a pile of shit."

  The soldiers wrap the body in a tarpaulin and put it in the back of their vehicle. They drive off.
The two foreign border guards go away too.

  The child remains where he is, not moving a muscle. He falls asleep. Early in the morning he is awakened by the singing of birds. He clutches his coat and rubber boots to himself and heads toward the village. He comes across two border guards, who ask him, "Hey, you. Where are you coming from?"

  'The other side of the frontier."

  "You crossed it? When?"

  "Yesterday. With my father. But he fell. He stayed on the ground after the explosion and the soldiers from over there came and took him away."

  "Yes, we were there. But we didn't see you. The soldier who deserted didn't see you either." "I hid. I was scared."

  "How come you speak our language?"

  "I learned it from soldiers during the war. You think they'll make my father better again?"

  The guards lower their eyes. "Definitely. Come with us. You must be hungry."

  The guards bring the child to the village and ask one of their wives to take care of him.

  "Give him something to eat, then bring him to the police station. Tell them that we'll come at eleven to make a report."

  The woman is fat and blond, her face red and smiling.

  She asks the child, "You like milk and cheese? Lunch isn't ready yet."

  "Yes, ma'am, I like everything. I'll eat anything."

  The woman serves him.

  "No, wait, go wash up first. At least your face and hands. I'llget your clothes nice and clean, but I guess you don't have anything to change into."

  "No, ma'am."

  'I'll lend you one of my husband's shirts. It'll be too big for you, but that doesn't matter. Just roll up the sleeves. Here's a towel. The bathroom is right there."

  The child takes his coat and rubber boots into the bathroom with him. He washes, returns to the kitchen, eats bread and cheese and drinks milk. He says, "Thank you, ma'am."

  She says, "You're well brought up and polite. And you speak our language very well. Did your mother stay on the other side?"

  "No, she died during the war."

  "Poor little thing. Come, we have to go to the commissioner's. Don't be scared, the policeman's nice, he's a friend of my husband's."