"Who's that man sitting out there?"
The guard looked uncomfortable. "We don't know, Mr. Commissioner. He didn't come to the gate. He just sat down there and turned his back."
"Is he a refugee?"
"We don't think so, Mr. Commissioner. He isn't dressed like they were."
Baudruche peered again, then took out his glasses. One glance was enough. He knew what they were dealing with. "He didn't ask to enter?"
"No, Mr. Commissioner."
"And you didn't go out to him?"
"Leave the City? Never! It's against orders."
"You didn't talk to him? You didn't ask him what he's doing there?"
"You know better than us that it's forbidden now, Mr. Commissioner."
Baudruche left him and joined Labrique. "Do you know who that man is sitting outside the gate?"
"No, and I don't give a damn."
"You don't give a damn about anything."
"I'm a reasonable man, my friend."
"Well, I'll tell you who's sitting out there. I recognized him right away. It's a soldier."
Labrique let out a dry laugh. "Wouldn't it be funny if they were coming back!"
Baudruche grabbed him by the lapels. "You shut up. You don't know what you're saying." He let go of Labrique. "I have to find out what he wants. Wait for me here."
Baudruche climbed the eighty stone steps (he knew the number by heart, he had climbed them so often) and leaned through a spy hole. He was right. He recognized the man as a soldier because he remembered how they had looked when he was a boy. He called to him softly. "Hey! Soldier!"
The soldier turned and looked at him. Baudruche continued. "Do you want to enter the City?"
The soldier shook his head. Baudruche wanted to ask him more questions. It had been such a long time since anyone had talked of them. But he must be careful—even he, Baudruche. It would be bad if word got around that he'd spoken to someone like this. A group of people were approaching in the distance. He left and rejoined Labrique.
The architect asked, "Don't we do our tour of the ramparts today, Baudruche?"
"No. I'm worried about this soldier."
Labrique shrugged.
Baudruche asked, "You have nothing to report about the ramparts today?"
"I certainly do! I wish to report that the ramparts haven't budged."
"You'll never die of overwork."
"What is there to get worked up about?"
"So long, Labrique."
"See you tonight, Baudruche."
No doubt about it: strange things were going on in the City. First the flood of refugees, then yesterday the solitary man, and today, the soldier. Why was he back? What would happen if the others came back? The City's inhabitants had assumed they were far away, beyond the farthest villages, and had hoped they would never return. A soldier smelled of war and that smell caused fear in the City.
Baudruche looked at his watch. It was time to go to the Factory, his daily agony. Everything there got under his skin: the noise, the atmosphere, the people. The worst place in the City—and the most important—for it made all the machines. He had to admit it: the Factory was the very heart of the City, a heart that beat harder and faster every year. The City’s whole life depended on the vast building that stretched endlessly, swallowing up houses and gardens as it spread.
But the people in the Factory talked a language Baudruche didn't understand, or, rather, understood too well. It was vague yet full of lies, fuzzy while it pretended to be precise. They manufacture more words than they do machines, he thought to himself.
The Director of the Factory was an engineer named Leponte. His was an enviable job, but a very dangerous one. There could be no interruption in the increase of "productivity." The smallest slowdown, for whatever reason, would mean his forced retirement, or a transfer to a lesser position. But right now, only the Prefect and Baudruche stood above him.
"Well, what have you to report today?"
"Mr. Commissioner, everything is going admirably. The flood of refugees is bringing us a vast new source of manpower. Totally unexpected, a real windfall. It's a miracle, Mr. Baudruche! They all came to the Factory and, in a manner of speaking, recycled themselves. The work is simple enough: just a few motions to learn. . . ."
"I know, I know. You think of the Factory and nothing more. My main concern is the morale of the refugees."
"Magnificent! They are in seventh heaven. So far as productivity and technical know-how are concerned, I believe I can tell you in a few words . . ."
"Don't. If you get started, I'll be here two hours. You won't know what you're saying, and I won't understand a word. Just take a piece of paper and write down what I'm to report to the Prefect and print in the newspaper. That will be much quicker. And I'll try to do a passable translation."
Ah, Leponte fumed, if only he could strangle Baudruche with his own hands, right here in the office. Why did this man humiliate him every day, show such contempt for science, technology, progress—in a word, for the future? It was beyond comprehension.
"I'm waiting."
"Forgive me, Mr. Commissioner. I was going over the figures in my head. I'll give you the report right away. I'll dictate it and then it can be typed up."
"You've forgotten how to write?"
"Forgive me, Mr. Commissioner. I must admit I have more facility with figures than with letters."
A young secretary who amply filled her metallic blue uniform came in. As Baudruche watched her take dictation, his mind wandered back to Miss Bourrot. The comparison annoyed him and increased his dislike for Leponte. He sat motionless in his chair, thumbs crossed, his eyes on the ceiling.
"Mr. Commissioner, excuse me for interrupting your day dreams . . ."
"I was not daydreaming, Mr. Leponte. I was meditating."
"Miss Niquel will bring you the report in five minutes."
"That won't be necessary. I'll pick it up on my way out."
In the adjoining office, Baudruche watched the secretary's game with amusement. "Are you sure you're comfortable? Wouldn't you like a cigarette?" and she rushed up to him with a lighter. He smiled smugly, thinking of the welcome that ass of a technocrat would have gotten from Miss Bourrot. She would have bitten him by now.
The secretary handed him the sheet of paper, her fingers lingering in his for a moment. Baudruche hesitated. This would put him one up in his game with Leponte. But he'd better skip it. Everything to do with the Factory was to be kept at arm's length. No human relationships with people of that sort—only official ones.
Baudruche stuffed the paper in his pocket and walked out, looking neither left nor right.
As soon as he reached his office, he gave Miss Bourrot the piece of paper.
"Take this thing and do up a piece for the newspaper, and tell Bicard I want to see him."
"But, Mr. Commissioner, the Director of Residences is waiting to see you. He says you summoned him."
"True enough, I did. Tell him to come in."
The Director of Residences was small and thin. He stood very straight in front of Baudruche.
"Do all the refugees have lodgings now, Mr. Parpins?"
"Every last one, Mr. Commissioner. No trouble at all. Each one has the sixteen square yards allotted to all our citizens. And hygienic conditions and livability have been strictly observed."
"Are they happy?"
"Absolutely. From the moment they realized that each lodging had its own machine. They turned it on right away and were thrilled. They'd never seen one before. They all agreed to the monthly charge for the machine. The Factory Director will withhold it from their wages."
"Fine, fine. But do they show any signs of life, any spirit?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Commissioner. Rest assured, all is perfectly calm. They're too busy with their machines."
"Did you by any.chance come across a solitary man among the refugees?"
Parpins started with surprise.
"Certainly not, Mr. Commissioner! I wouldn't have admitted him."
Baudruche dropped his arms with discouragement.
"All right, Parpins. You can go now."
Parpins backed out. Baudruche buzzed and Bicard walked in. He announced, "I have found our man, Mr. Commissioner. He is staying at the Hotel. Alone, in a room."
"I didn't suppose he'd sleep in the kitchen. Who the devil is he?"
"No one knows, Mr. Commissioner. He didn't give his name. But I did find out what you wanted to know, didn't I?"
"That hardly took a magician. It was more than likely he'd stay at the Hotel."
"Not really, sir. With a lone man, you never know. Should I continue to watch him? Do you want him arrested?"
"Arrested? What for?"
"I don't know. His being alone would be enough. . . ."
"You can go. Don't you bother with this anymore. I'll handle it from now on."
Baudruche looked at his watch. It was past noon. He told Miss Bourrot he was going to lunch.
"But, Mr. Commissioner, they're waiting for orders to put up the posters."
"What posters?"
"The prohibition against feeding the birds."
"But I told the Prefect there was no need to fear a drain on our provisions. Our stocks are more than ample."
"He wouldn't listen, and the people are beginning to talk. They say it's wasting food; it's taking bread from the mouths of the workers. The Prefect has signed the posters. He wants you to sign them too."
"Show me one."
Miss Bourrot left and returned with a long tube of paper which she unrolled on his desk. He read it over slowly.
"You may send out orders to have them put up, but I refuse to sign them. Wait a minute. I've got an idea. Have another one printed immediately. Take this down.
"We wish to inform the people of the City that the gates will henceforth be closed only as a security measure. They will be opened for anyone desiring to leave the City for whatever reason.
"That's all. Take it to the Prefect for his authorization. Then have them pasted up. These I want to sign with my own name."
"You don't think this will disturb the people?"
"For God's sake, why? I've said nothing threatening."
Baudruche walked out. He was in a hurry to get home, first because he was hungry, second because he needed to relax. But he didn't want to tell Martha about the City's problems. They were men's problems. Besides, things were not going to his liking, and he didn't want to talk about them.
"Anything new, Robert?"
"No, Martha, nothing. Just the usual. . . ."
After lunch, he left the house sooner than usual. He needed to think, and he didn't think well at home. On the other hand, it was where he did his best debating. . . .
As he was walking, one of his men stopped him.
"The Public Library didn't open this morning, Mr. Commissioner. I rang the bell but there was no answer. What should I do?"
"Can't I be left in peace during the lunch hour? Why not open the door?"
"We thought of that, but we were waiting for orders. We didn't want to do anything without asking you first."
Always the need for orders I Don't do anything until you're thoroughly protected! What would they do without him as their umbrella?
"All right. I'll go."
"You'll go yourself, Mr. Commissioner?"
"Yes, I, myself, as you see."
He had to go himself if he wanted to find out anything. Besides, he had known for some time that he must get more involved in the City's affairs. The City was sick. He knew it as if he were a doctor. To the ordinary man, it looked healthy, strong and prosperous. But he had noticed the slack motions, the somnolence. Something was happening to the City, and he had to watch.
"Let's go," he said, prodding his man from the rear.
He was concerned about the Librarian; he was very fond of Mr. Pholio.
Pholio was a former professor of literature who had been forced to retire for lack of students. With considerable spunk, he had complained all the way up to Baudruche. He held that he had made a moral contract with the City and the City with him.
"But, Mr. Pholio, you have no students!"
"The fact that I have no students is the City's problem. It owes them to me. All it has to do is furnish them."
In the end, Baudruche became convinced that the City did indeed have a responsibility. It was obligated to provide Pholio with students just as he was obligated to teach them. All the same, Baudruche tried to argue with him, devoting an hour of his precious time to it, but in vain. The old man would have none of it.
By the same token, Pholio knew perfectly well that there was nothing Baudruche could do about it. God and the Prefect stood above him.
Baudruche solved the problem by giving him the job of Librarian, and Pholio had resigned himself both to the lack of students and the lack of readers. He had shut himself up with his books, abandoned the house the City had put at his disposal and slept on an iron cot between the stacks. He ate hurriedly at a corner of the main reading table. A loyal old neighbor brought him his food twice a day.
It was she who had found the door locked and alerted the police.
As Baudruche had feared, they found Pholio lying pale and motionless on the floor.
"Carry him away," he told his men.
Four men bent to the task, although two would have been ample. Baudruche watched Pholio go, his eyes staring fixedly in Baudruche's direction. He followed his men to the door. "I'll join you in a moment."
He locked the door and stood alone in the enormous room. The books stood on symmetrical shelves from floor to ceiling. He approached a shelf and read a few titles. He didn't recognize one. Stubbornly, he read more titles, but without success. He was in unknown territory, another world.
Of course he read from time to time, whatever he found at the bottom of a closet. Sometimes he read the same book several times. He would get to page 50 or 60, stop abruptly, laugh at himself and say out loud:
"God, I'm stupid, Martha! I've already read this damn book."
Was reading necessary? He didn't know. They had insisted on it, back in elementary school, but he'd paid no attention to them. Necessary? He wondered. Hadn't he managed without it, and better than most?
Baudruche pulled a book out at random. The title attracted him: Considerations of the Causes of Rome's Grandeur and Decadence. He opened the book, sat down and ran his eyes over the pages. He was struck by several sentences:
The houses were small and scattered, without visible plan, for the men were hardly ever home, being always at work or in the public square. But Rome's grandeur was obvious in its public buildings. The works which conveyed, still convey today, the best indication of its power were accomplished under the kings.
Baudruche thought of the City and how its small houses were disappearing fast while the ramparts remained.
Eventually, the benevolence of the early emperors—their only means of understanding their situation—came to an end. The prince knew only what he was told by his few confidants.
Baudruche couldn't help thinking of the Prefect.
This then is the history of the Romans: they conquered every people by their maxims, but the republic could not survive its success. The government had to be changed. But the maxims used by the new government were the opposite of the original ones and so its grandeur collapsed.
He thought of the City he had known as a child, compared to the one he knew today, and it frightened him.
He noticed a large ledger on the table with the word "Loans" on the cover. He opened it, took out his pen and wrote his name and the title in large, energetic letters.
He left the library, carefully locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Then he walked away, clutching his book. "You're reverting to your childhood, Baudruche! You look as if you were going back to school. . . ."
He was angry with himself. Why had he neglected Pholio? Of course no one had ever told him that such an insignificant-looking person could occasionally
be useful to a man in his position.
Pholio must have read a lot, not just books found in closets. And now he was dead. There was nothing for Baudruche to do but work things out for himself.
His greeting to Miss Bourrot was distracted. He looked at the clock. It was too late to go to the Hotel and check on the solitary man, and it was too early to make his report. He dropped into his chair and cast a weary look at the book he had placed on the table. No, he'd read enough for one day. Exhausted, he soon fell asleep.
When he woke up, it was almost dark. Time for his report. He rang for Miss Bourrot.
She had already prepared the daily newspaper release. He glanced at it. It was brilliantly done: vague, imprecise, artful. No doubt about it: Miss Bourrot was better at it than he was. He thanked her and suggested they turn their attention to the Prefect's report—that wretched report that made him sweat blood every night.
"Mr. Prefect:
"The gates of the City have not been opened since last night, as no refugee has asked to come in and no inhabitant of the City has asked to leave.
"As usual, the City's architect inspected the ramparts and found them to be in perfect condition.
"While I was on the ramparts, I noticed a man sitting outside the walls, his back turned to the City. I realized that we were dealing with a soldier. I asked him if he wanted to enter the City. He shook his head. Of course, I would not have permitted a soldier to enter the City without first informing you, and would have kept him under the strictest observation while awaiting your decision.
"There are no more fires in the villages, the houses having burned to the ground.
"During my daily visit to the Factory, Director Leponte expressed great satisfaction with the refugees, all of whom had applied for work."
Baudruche stopped and addressed Miss Bourrot:
"Hand me the paper they gave me at the Factory this morning. I must try to make it out before I continue."
"Mr. Commissioner, I've done it already. I condensed it into a few words."
Baudruche took the sheet and sat down.
"Good; this will help a lot. Where were we? Oh, yes, the refugees.
"Due to this increase in our labor force, we can look forward to a productivity growth in the area of seventeen to seventeen point four percent. I quote the Factory Director.
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