T H E W A L L E D C I T Y
THE WALLED CITY
by Marcel Clouzot
Translated by June P. Wilson and Walter B. Michaels
M. EVANS
Lanham • New York • Boulder • Toronto • Plymouth, UK
M. Evans
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Copyright © 1973 by Jungo, Inc.
First Rowman & Littlefield paperback edition 2014
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Contents
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1
H I S B A C K against the rampart wall, Robert Baudruche watched the flood of refugees crowding through the gates below. There was no end to them. At first, weeks ago, there had been only five or six a day—no one paid any attention then—but then there were twelve, twenty, fifty. That's when Baudruche began to worry. And the number kept increasing. Now it was a thousand a day.
He had asked them questions at the beginning. But their answers were vague, evasive. They didn't know, really. If pressed, they panicked, cowering before him. All he could worm out of them was that there would be more, many more, until all the villages were empty. They admitted to a vague sense of fear, but they could not explain its origin. They knew only that they had to come back to the shelter of the City as quickly as possible. They had brought little—whatever a suitcase or knapsack would hold—and what they had left behind, they burned.
Baudruche turned and peered at the horizon through a spy hole. He couldn't see a thing. He put on a pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses, and the farthest reaches came into focus.
In the distance, everything was in flames, sad wisps of smoke rising straight into the sky.
"They've burned everything. There won't be a damn thing left," Baudruche said, shaking his head.
It broke his heart to see all those villages in flames. They had been built at such cost, the land so hard to come by. He had known those villages, visited them, inspected them in those distant days when he was only a minor official. Often he had regretted not being able to go back, look around, have a chat with the people he had come to know. They would be his age now; some even older.
He had recognized a few among the refugees, but they didn't seem to recognize him. They just stammered: "Yes, Mr. Commissioner," or "No, Mr. Commissioner." Fear!
They must be sick! How is it possible?
A strange sickness, this flight, this cringing need for refuge behind the City's high walls. Refuge from what? No one had attacked them. The enemy had never come close; they had been particularly well protected.
Yet panic had swept through the villages. It had spread like a grass fire until all the villages were burning.
What were they so afraid of? The wars were very far away, and nobody discussed them anyway. It was bad luck.
Tiny columns were winding over the land as far as the eye could see; Baudruche knew they were men even though he couldn't distinguish them. They came from every direction, converging at the main gate, the only one open in the City. More than one gate open to the outside would have terrified the populace. The Prefect was adamant: only one gate open—the main one—from sunup to sundown.
The smoke spread to the City and it stung Baudruche's eyes. A long gray veil, it followed the refugees like a reproach.
Baudruche looked down. It was less painful to watch what was going on inside the City. Everything appeared to be normal, as ordained by the Prefect. Baudruche's men stood in double file, channeling the flow of arrivals. Most of the families were complete, their members clinging to each other. Social Service employees directed them to welcome centers.
The refugees were submissive, some even obsequious. No complaints, no arguments—no songs or laughter either.
Baudruche removed his glasses and walked down the wide stone steps. The crowd made way as he approached. He took up his position next to the Chief Medical Officer who had been watching the refugees file by.
"What do you think is the matter?" Baudruche asked.
"Nothing, as far as I can see. They seem normal enough."
"Normal? Look at them!"
"They correspond exactly to the current rational type. No difference at all. We could test them out but I don't think it would tell us much."
"We could do what?"
"Test them . . . give them an examination."
"Out of the question. The Prefect has forbidden any more interrogation. They won't answer anyway. But is there nothing else we can do? Do we have to leave them in this condition? You're a doctor!"
"Yes, but I'm not a veterinarian."
"You're all alike. You don't give a damn!"
The doctor went pale and answered dryly, "I am here by order of the Prefect and that is all, Mr. Commissioner. He asked me to look over the refugees to see if any were sick. I have seen no one sick, and that's that. Beyond that there is nothing to say."
"Then there's no point in your staying. I'll include what you've just said in my report."
The doctor raised his hat and headed off.
The crowds from the City had been thinning out during the preceding weeks. At first, curiosity had led them to see if these distant relatives, gone so long ago, would be different from themselves. To their disappointment, they found the refugees were not. Three days after their arrival, no one even remembered they'd come from the villages.
Baudruche returned to the steps and climbed them slowly. He reached the sentry walk and surveyed the countryside.
The last groups were hurrying to make it to the gates before sundown. Baudruche looked at his watch, tapped his foot nervously and ordered the gates closed. It was already past the hour.
An uneasy conscience drove him to take a last look beyond the walls. A solitary man was approaching at a leisurely pace. Baudruche was about to call to him to hurry when he remembered his orders: never do anything that might in any way frighten the refugees. So instead he blew his whistle. "Don't close up yet. There's still one coming."
This was most unusual. No one had ever seen a man come alone. It was most disturbing. He must watch the man closely. Baudruche blew his whistle again and called down, "Heh, Bicard! Come here for a minute, will you?"
Bicard climbed up.
"Bicard, a solitary man just went through the gates. Find out who he is and where he is to live."
"Yes, Mr. Commissioner."
Bicard disappeared from sight. The gates closed, the last refugees scattered and the few remainin
g townspeople dispersed. Baudruche's men broke ranks and waited for him at the bottom of the steps. With a wave of the hand, he sent them all home.
Night was falling fast. Baudruche glanced at the horizon: all that remained was a reddish glow. He walked to the first small turret and asked the man inside, "Aren't you cold?"
"No, Mr. Commissioner."
"Right. Wait for winter to feel the cold. Call out to the left tonight."
The sentry called to his neighbor in the next turret, which was barely visible in the dark. The call was repeated by the neighbor and then by another voice farther to the left. It grew fainter and fainter, then picked up strength and returned clear and sharp to the right.
"O.K. Everybody's here. The City will sleep soundly tonight. I should know you. What's your name?"
"Shell, Mr. Commissioner."
"Shell . . . Wasn't your grandfather a carpenter? Mine had a helper by that name."
"I don't know, Mr. Commissioner."
"You don't know your grandfather?"
"No, Mr. Commissioner, I only know my orders."
Baudruche shrugged, then worried that the man had noticed. He reached in his pocket for his packet of tobacco, but it was empty. The tobacco, as usual, had leaked out. "Damn this system! Can't they give us any decent paper! God knows they charge enough for the tobacco."
"Oh, Mr. Commissioner, what if somebody heard you!"
"So what! Show me anybody who'll say this is good paper."
Baudruche dug into his pocket, came up with a few shreds of tobacco and placed them in the hollow of his left palm. Then he took out a pad of cigarette wrappers and rolled a cigarette. The sentry rushed to him with his cigarette case.
"Please take one of mine, Mr. Commissioner. You shouldn't be rolling your own cigarettes!"
"They taste better this way. Try one, you'll see." Baudruche handed him a wrapper.
"I don't know how."
"Can't you do anything for yourself? Does someone hold your hand when you screw your wife?"
"Surely Mr. Commissioner is joking."
"Nothing sure about it. . . . Come, hold your lantern up."
The man held it out to him. Baudruche opened the tiny door, drew on his cigarette and walked away.
He went down the steps and headed for the main street. It was empty now. Baudruche liked to go home alone in the evening, through the deserted streets, without escort. He knew he had nothing to fear. No one in the City would dream of doing him harm.
Fifteen minutes later, he was in his office facing the belfrey of City Hall. He was astonished to find Miss Bourrot still there.
For twenty years, he'd been astonished to find her there in the evening. Why the devil didn't she go home? She wasn't indispensable. She carried work to the point of a vice. Her only vice: that was clear by looking at her. Oh, well, he was grateful to her. Not for her looks God knows, but for her character. In her presence, Baudruche could say what he didn't dare say elsewhere. She would just look down and pretend not to hear. Nothing had ever leaked out. He would have known after all these years.
For eleven years, she had belabored him with "Yes, Mr. High Commissioner," and "No, Mr. High Commissioner," until one day, exasperated, he asked her for God's sake to stop using his formal title: all it did was remind him of his exhausting duties. Ever since, she had kept it to a simple "Mr. Commissioner," but he could see that her heart wasn't in it.
"Miss Bourrot, is Bicard back?"
"Yes, Mr. . . . Commissioner, he's in the waiting room. He wouldn't leave without seeing you. I tried to tell him . . ."
"You have nothing to tell him but to come in—immediately."
She shuffled to the door and Bicard entered.
"So . . . did you find out who the man is?"
"Mr. Commissioner, I have to tell you "
"I'm sure you do."
"What I wanted to explain was . . ."
"Explain what? That you let him get away?"
Bicard's head drooped.
"Ah, splendid! I give you a simple assignment and . . . Did anyone see him?"
"Of course, Mr. Commissioner. A man all by himself like that."
"O.K. I don't care how you do it, but by noon tomorrow, I want to know where he is. Understand? You find out or I'll have you recycled to the Factory."
"Yes, Mr. Commissioner," Bicard mumbled and backed out the door.
Baudruche dropped his hands on the arms of his chair. "What am I to do with men like that! There's only you and me, Miss Bourrot. But don't look at me with those calflike eyes."
Miss Bourrot stammered, "I just wanted to know if everything went all right today."
"You're about to find out. I shall now dictate my report to the Prefect:
"Sir:
"In accordance with your instructions, I went to the main gate of the City to observe those arriving from the villages.
"Their physical condition seemed excellent. The malaise they feel—as with the City's populace—appears to have no visible effect on their physical condition, according to the Chief Medical Officer.
"Our welcome services directed the refugees in groups of twenty to the housing which had been prepared for them in line with your instructions.
"As night fell, I made a last trip to the ramparts and examined the environs. As far as the eye could see, there was no movement, and the villages had burned to the ground.
"I was about to give the order to close the gate when a solitary individual presented himself at the gate. I did not interrogate him, just as I have stopped interrogating other refugees at your request. But I noticed that he was well dressed, of medium height, and carried one suitcase. Once inside the City, he did not join a group and avoided our welcome services along the main street. At that point, I lost sight of him.
"A few minutes after the gate was closed, the main arteries of the City were empty and all lights in the refugees' quarters were extinguished."
Baudruche stopped. He had nothing more to say. Miss Bourrot watched him, then said in a timid voice:
"What about the weather, Mr. Commissioner?"
"The weather? Why, the same as usual, Miss Bourrot. Do I have to remind you?
"No change in the weather is predicted. It will remain without sun, because of the cloud cover over the City. Our sentries report no unusual noise outside the City, nor has the enemy appeared on the horizon.
"That's all. Give me a sheet of paper and I'll sign it. You can type the text above it."
Baudruche got to his feet, took his hat and headed for the door. As he was closing it, he felt a pang of remorse. So he added:
"Good night, my pet."
He closed the door without waiting to see the shock on his secretary's face. But he could visualize it.
Baudruche was in a hurry to get home. Home was where he renewed his oxygen supply every evening; home was what made it possible for him to face the next day.
His house had belonged to his grandfather, the carpenter in chief. Baudruche had refused to give it up for the official residence offered him as High Commissioner.
"Live in that dump! I wouldn't put my rabbits in it! My house was built of stone and I know who built it. He was a good man and I know it will hold together."
His house opened onto the street, which frightened Martha. The front door was too accessible, she thought. He laughed.
"Who would think of harming me beside you, my dear? Anyway, I still have enough strength to defend myself."
"But, Robert, some madman . . ."
"We no longer have madmen in the City. The worst we have are bureaucrats. They may have evil thoughts but they're not dangerous. "
Once he was inside his own house, Baudruche forgot the bureaucrats as well as his own troubles—everything except the Prefect.
That night, Baudruche flopped as usual into his deep chair next to the fireplace, unlaced his shoes and said:
"Martha, hand me my slippers."
"They're on the floor right next to you. You poor dear, are your eyes ge
tting worse?"
"Don't tease. Just wait ten years, until you're my age."
"Fifteen years, Robert."
"Forgive me, dear. My mistake. It's only that you haven't been looking all that young recently."
"If you can find anyone else who'll put up with you, I won't be jealous."
"I've found her already."
"Who is she, dear?"
"I'm going to divorce you and marry Miss Bourrot."
"I must say she deserves it."
They played that game every night: the game of disguised love.
2
B A U D R U C H E started each day with a visit to the ramparts. The walls had been one of the City's main concerns for a long time. No one could have slept without knowing they were there. People talked about them often just to reassure themselves. Who else had such ramparts? Who would dare attack them? Yet everyone trembled, and the condition of the walls was under constant scrutiny.
Baudruche loved the ramparts but not because they gave him reassurance; a military attack, he knew, was highly unlikely. No, he loved them for themselves. He'd been climbing them since he was a child. His father had loved them too; even his grandfather had taken him there sometimes.
"Who built them, Grandpa?"
"I don't know. They're very old. My grandfather didn't know."
The Prefect knew only too well how important the ramparts were to the populace and ordered them carefully examined every morning by the City's chief architect under Baudruche's supervision. So together Baudruche and Labrique made sure the ramparts hadn't disappeared during the night.
"How are you this morning, Labrique?" Baudruche asked when they met in front of the main gate.
"Better than the people here, or anywhere else for that matter. Are we through with the new arrivals? It looks that way. They haven't opened the gate this morning."
Baudruche went up to one of the guards. "Why haven't you opened up? No more refugees?"
The guard stood at attention. "No, Mr. Commissioner."
Baudruche walked up to the gate and looked through a spy hole.
The Walled City Page 1