"Didn't the Director tell you? One of our workers was assaulted by a rat."
Baudruche started. "What are you talking about?"
"It's the truth, Mr. Commissioner. I swear it on my mother's grave. She didn't like rats either. Do you know, one day when she was working in the laundry . . ."
"The man, Miss Niquel, just tell me what happened to the man."
"Well, it was only a little while ago. About noon, a worker in the assembly shop was going to the café near the Factory. . . . You must know it . . . it's called the Social Progress Café. It says in big letters outside: 'Bring your own food.' Well, one of our workers was on his way there with his lunch in his lunch box when what should he see but a rat! A big, fat rat, bigger than any he'd ever seen. That rat went right up to the man, just the way I'm doing, and looked up at him—the way I'm looking at you—and told him he wanted what he had in his lunch-box."
Baudruche was in a turmoil. "What happened then?"
"The man had to give him his food, and I think the rat even went off with the lunch-box."
Baudruche leaped to his feet, pushed her aside and barged into the Director's office.
Leponte jumped. "What is going on, Mr. Commissioner?"
"I ask you that every day, Mr. Leponte, and you might do me the honor of giving me an answer."
"But I do answer you, Mr. Commissioner."
"Oh, sure. You throw meaningless figures in my face. But if something really serious happens, you keep quiet, don't you, Mr. Leponte?"
"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Commissioner."
"You don't think it's serious when a rat assaults a worker?"
"That was a minor incident of no importance, Mr. Commissioner. I wasn't going to bore you with such trifles."
"You call that a trifle?"
"But it's all been taken care of, Mr. Commissioner. The rat went away, the worker was compensated, and everybody is happy."
"I'm not. I want to see that worker."
"His name is Wiesel, a very good man. He works on the assembly line. But if I call him, it means the whole line stops and there'll be a drop in productivity. . . ."
"Your workers never go to the can?"
"Not during working hours. I make sure of that."
The worker walked in, looking uncomfortable.
"Sir . . . Mister . . ."
"Wiesel, don't you realize you are in the presence of the High Commissioner?"
Wiesel went up to Baudruche and held out his hand as if to make amends for his blunder. Baudruche shook it.
"Wiesel, you're mad! This is the High Commissioner!"
"I know he is, Mr. Director. I recognize Mr. Baudruche. I just wanted to ask after his and the missus' health."
"You will behave properly, unless you want to lose your job."
He couldn't lose his job. It would be impossible to find another one at age forty-four. It would mean eviction from his lodgings and, worst of all, loss of his machine. What would he do evenings?
Baudruche hadn't taken his eyes off him. It was painful to watch the change in his expression from friendliness to self-denial, and finally to fear. That lousy bastard Leponte! Baudruche thought to himself. He's got the poor man terrified. But maybe it'll be easier to make him talk now.
But Baudruche couldn't get anything out of him. All Wiesel would say was, "I don't know, Mr. Director," or "I don't remember, Mr. Commissioner."
Finally, Baudruche took him by the arm and said, "Come, let's have a chat down in the courtyard. It'll be easier to talk down there."
Once away from the Director, Wiesel regained his composure and explained calmly what had happened.
"The rat came up to me, just like I'm standing in front of you, Mr. Commissioner. He put his hand on the strap of my lunch-box like this, shook me like this [and he tried to shake Baudruche's two hundred pounds] and said: 'Give me that.' I asked, 'Why should I? It isn't yours.' 'I need it because I'm hungry.'
"I know what it's like to be hungry, but all the same, that's no way to ask. . . . But when I saw he was going to bite me, I gave him my lunch-box."
"You did wrong, Wiesel. You shouldn't give in to threats."
"No, I was right, Mr. Baudruche. We don't want violence. That rat was a proletarian, just like me. Make war on war. So I told our shop steward what I told you, he told the foreman who told the boss and he gave me the compensation. Look what they're paying me. That shows I was right."
Baudruche argued with him, but it was hopeless. Baudruche sent him back to the assembly line and left the Factory, dragging his feet. To see a man enslaved, virtually crushed by the machine, and then the inhumanity of those above him made Baudruche feel helpless.
Rats! That's all he needed. Of course everybody knew there were rats—in the City's sewers as well as in the distant villages—but no one had ever seen one expose himself to the light of day. No rat had ever dared assault an inhabitant of the City, and no one certainly had ever before given in to a rat's threats without attempting to defend himself.
Back in Leponte's office, the Director badgered Wiesel with questions. What had Baudruche said to him, what did he say to Baudruche?
"He kept saying I should have defended myself. He didn't give a shit about the compensation you gave me for the two red sausages and the quarter pound of cheese I lost."
"Well, I happen not to agree with the High Commissioner. You did the right thing, Wiesel. I don't want any trouble around the Factory. Besides," he dropped his voice, "we must always come to the aid of our fellows, right?"
He pressed his buzzer.
"Miss Niquel, give this man a bonus, for fraternal action and felicitous initiative. As you see, Wiesel, I always have my workers' welfare at heart."
Baudruche was dictating his report. It was slow going. There had been so many problems that day.
The usual comments on the state of the ramparts turned his mind back to that grayish column at the foot of the walls above the old moat. The ants. He hesitated. Damn. But it was better to make a fool of himself than be wrong. Aloud he said, "Miss Bourrot, take this down.
"The City's architect felt it his professional duty to call my attention to a column of ants climbing the walls."
And what was there to say about the man in the Hotel? That his behavior seemed neither disquieting nor abnormal? But didn't that reflect only what he had picked up at the Hotel? Wasn't there also what he had learned as he shadowed the man, and most important of all, what had happened on the ramparts—the conversation with the soldier?
Baudruche didn't know what he should do. He felt at once too powerful and not powerful enough. Better keep quiet for now and gain time. But did he have the right to keep quiet? He worked for the Prefect and the Prefect trusted him and depended on him. On the other hand, he also worked for the City. He was its servant not only as Commissioner but as an inhabitant. There had always been Baudruches in the City, even before there was a Prefect. He thought of his father and his grandfather—the carpenter—who had helped build the Prefecture. They said: "Baudruches have always worked for the City, never against it."
He closed his eyes, stopped thinking and made up his mind.
"O.K., Miss Bourrot.
"I had just finished my visit to the Hotel when I saw the individual in question leaving by the main door. I immediately followed him. He headed for the ramparts, climbed to the top and joined a group of people watching the soldier who was still sitting near the main gate as he has since his arrival. The stranger hailed him; the soldier turned and waved. All the City inhabitants fled except for the man from the Hotel. Then I observed him as he talked with the soldier. They talked for quite a while. Unfortunately, I was not close enough to hear what they said. Had I come nearer, I might have been noticed and very possibly recognized. As a result, Mr. Prefect, I have nothing further to report on this subject today."
He had to say at least this much; there had been witnesses. But it was done. He let out a deep sigh of relief. Miss Bourrot looked up, not understanding w
hat had caused the sigh. Baudruche continued his dictation, but more slowly as he struggled with Leponte's report.
"I paid my usual visit to the Factory Director. He termed the situation more than satisfactory due to the newly arrived engineer. The Director asks that the engineer be granted a social promotion.
"Also, the Factory Director received a visit from a delegation of workers demanding an increase of 11 percent in wages, to be effective at the next announcement of an increase in productivity."
Baudruche added a few words on the condition of the population's spirit (calm, much too calm) and then passed to other subjects, the most important being the Public Library. Mr. Pholio had left an inventory which indicated a very large number of volumes—far larger than had been thought.
"I have directed that a competition for the post of Librarian be announced in the newspapers and on posters, and that qualified candidates apply at the earliest possible date.
"Where do we stand with the birds, Miss Bourrot?"
"The poor little things keep going to all the places where people used to throw them bread and there's nothing there. They hover about in gre. ´ flocks, crying. They don't understand what's happened."
"Nor do I, Miss Bourrot. Take this down.
"The order forbidding the feeding of birds has been scrupulously carried out. However, it has been brought to my attention that the birds hover about, crying.
"Does that cover everything?"
"I think so, Mr. Commissioner."
Baudruche briefly described the incident of the rat to Miss Bourrot. She was appalled. As he dictated the report, he was careful to remain objective and keep to the facts, so that at the end, his anger would have a more telling effect.
"If the Prefect doesn't understand now! . . . Write that up and condense it a little, then rush it over to the newspaper. It's important; I want it to come out tonight."
Miss Bourrot left and Baudruche breathed again. It had been a hard day, but he wasn't complaining. He was going to do battle and this gratified him. He loved a fight in a good cause and this one was that.
He turned on the lamp on his desk, settled himself comfort ably in his chair and picked up the book from the table.
As he read Montesquieu on Rome, he compared it to his own City. And when he learned the causes of Rome's fall, they made him afraid:
Only two kinds of people were left in the city; the slaves, and those whose selfish interests kept them slaves.
He thought of Leponte and how the Factory's increasing productivity guaranteed him his job while it turned his workers into slaves.
Better the risk of an unfortunate war than peace through bribery.
He thought of Wiesel and the rat and was convinced that he, Baudruche, had been right and had behaved like a good servant of the City. After all, wasn't Montesquieu of the same mind?
Preoccupied, he walked home slowly. Never had he thought as much as he had that day. He stopped a newspaper vendor, bought a paper and examined it under a streetlamp to see if the story on the rat was on the front page where it was supposed to be. It wasn't. He leafed through the paper and finally found a parody of his story on page 7 under the heading: "Generous Act by One of Our Workers."
"Those bastards. . . ." Baudruche crumpled the newspaper, threw it in the gutter and continued home. Martha and Labrique were waiting for him. He spoke little during dinner.
The meal was barely over and the plates cleared when Labrique put his elbows on the table. "I gather that funny things are going on in the City, Baudruche. 'What's all this about a rat?"
"If you want the news, read the paper. That's what it's for."
4
B A U D R U C H E was in a hurry to leave the house the next morning. He was afraid things might get out of hand if he weren't there. He reached the ramparts early. Labrique hadn't arrived.
While he waited, he glanced at the bulletin board.
"Will you look at this!" he cried. A guard ran up.
"Who tore that off?" Baudruche asked, pointing to what remained of his poster about opening the gates.
"I don't know, Mr. High Commissioner. It must have happened before we got here. You'll have to ask the night shift. We just came on."
Ask the night shift? Who would have seen anything in the dark? "Forget it," he said, and motioned the guard back to his station. He looked at the bulletin board again and tried to decipher the slogans scrawled on what remained of the poster. "Don't worry; nobody's leaving." "United against Fascism," "Who wants to get killed?" and others more vitriolic.
"Poor buggers," he said in a low voice.
"Who? The rats?" It was Labrique.
Baudruche answered: "The hell with the rats!"
"Listen, my friend, you can't brush them aside. According to the newspaper, they are an ethnic group which feels its standing to be incompatible with its dignity."
"I don't want to hear any more."
"I'm trying to appeal to your conscience.
"My conscience! My conscience shits on you, Labrique!"
They started climbing the stairs. On top, Baudruche glanced beyond the ramparts. Yes, the soldier was still there, in the same position, his back to the City, eyes on the distant horizon. Baudruche thought about calling him. But what good would it do? The soldier would turn around and the people walking along the ramparts would bolt as they had the day before. There would be talk and Baudruche would be accused of plotting. . . .
Labrique grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him to the same place as on the previous day. They leaned over the wall.
"So what's to see?"
"A second one."
"A second what?"
"A second column of ants. Keep your eyes on them, Baudruche. I can't do anything; it's outside my competence."
"But what do you expect me to do about them?"
"Stop them from climbing."
Baudruche shrugged. If this was Labrique's idea of a joke . . . The two moved slowly away along the sentry walk. From time to time, Labrique stopped to examine the walls, the turrets, the spy holes. Everything was solid. Not a sign of a crack in those well-laid stones.
"Come on, Labrique, let's go. They'll last a lot longer than you and me."
"Let's hope so," the architect said with a sigh. "But what's bothering you today? Why the hurry?"
"I want you to take a look at a big new construction project you'll be involved in."
"What is it? Where are we going?"
"To the barracks, my friend, to watch the demolition."
Labrique was startled. "What do you mean? They're tearing the barracks down? What are they going to put in its place?"
"Need you ask? Annexes to the Factory."
"It isn't big enough already?"
"It won't be big enough until it's swallowed up the whole City."
The architect took a few steps and stopped abruptly, eyes cast down, hands on hips.
"Damn it, no! I won't take on that job! I dreamed of building cathedrals. . . ."
Baudruche made a gesture of helplessness.
The Commissioner cut across the Public Gardens to the Hotel and headed for the Manager's office. Baidroume leaped from his chair.
"What's going on, Mr. Commissioner?"
"Nothing unusual. Is the handsome stranger in?"
"No, Mr. Commissioner, he has gone out."
"Give me his key. It's number twenty-three. You see, I have a good memory."
"Would you like me to go with you?"
"I don't need anybody."
Baudruche groaned as he climbed the stairs. His feet hurt. He'd probably walked too much that morning. He unlocked the door to number 23, closed it carefully behind him and slipped the key into his pocket.
He made the rounds of the room, opening closets and drawers, but found only the usual things, nothing that meant anything. But there had to be something unusual among the effects of a solitary man. . . . A suitcase stood in a corner of the bathroom. He picked it up, placed it on a table in the bedroom and
tried to open it. It was locked.
He took a small kit out of his pocket, opened the suitcase—and was dumbfounded. It was stuffed with bank notes in large denominations, tied together with string.
Baudruche put on his glasses, took out one of the packets and tried to guess its value. It was too much to guess. Then he looked closer. The bills were certainly Central Bank issue, but there was something peculiar about them. He took one of the same denomination from his wallet. There was a tiny difference in the printing.
"Too bad," Baudruche murmured. "I'd rather he'd been an honest man."
Money wasn't the only thing in the suitcase. There was also a long flat case. A weapon, of course; that was to be expected. He opened the case and took out a long black tube with little metal pieces attached. What on earth was it? Baudruche looked it up and down and inside, then put it back in its case. An illustration he'd seen in a dictionary flashed through his mind: it was a flute.
So people still played these things?
Baudruche was closing the suitcase when the door opened. He jumped. A girl of sixteen or seventeen stood there, looking at him boldly.
He asked, "How did you get in? What are you doing here?" "What are you doing here?"
The girl must be one of the more recent refugees not to recognize him.
"Don't you know who I am?"
She made a funny popping noise with her cheeks. "You're Baudruche to the Prefect, Robert to your wife, and Mr. High Commissioner to the people of the City. That's right, isn't it?"
Baudruche had to smile. He was both amused and abashed by the girl. He took her arm in a gesture of appeasement, but she slapped his hand.
"Hands off! Are you trying to make me on top of everything else?"
No, it had never even crossed his mind. Not that she wasn't pretty. Quite the contrary. She was spirited and as fresh as a daisy, but . . . Now if Miss Niquel were the one standing in front of him right now . . . But this girl, looking him straight in the eye, was something else again. Obviously she didn't fool around.
"O.K. Since you know my name, tell me yours."
"Posey."
"And what were you corning in here for?"
"To clean the room. It doesn't clean itself."
The Walled City Page 4