The Walled City

by Marcel Clouzot

  But what about the occupation of the café? Wasn't that strictly illegal? No, there was no law against it; the owner was entirely in accord. He could have anybody he liked in his establishment, and he was very pleased to be able to offer his wares in such a sacred cause. The Commissioner mustn't worry; the problem would solve itself. Besides, he had just had a visit from a young reporter the Prefect had sent over.

  "What did he want?"

  "He wanted to do an interview with me which I was pleased to grant. It will appear in tonight's edition, a kind of sequel to yours of yesterday. I took the opportunity to mention a project—still in an embryonic stage—which could be very constructive to both sides. It involves, not an embassy—we're not that ambitious—but just a simple structure, something roomy in the center of town, given to us as a symbol of our new understanding. What do you think of the idea, Mr. Commissioner?"

  Baudruche felt a shiver run down his back.

  "I'm not sure. I need time to think."

  "Take all the time you want. I don't need to tell you how much we would appreciate your approval—almost as much as the Prefect's, who of course will be the deciding factor."

  "Which is as it should be," Baudruche said, barely containing himself. "I think we've covered the situation . . ." and he made ready to leave.

  "Mr. Commissioner, I can't tell you how happy your visit has made me. . . ."

  Baudruche clenched his fists in his pockets and left.

  A few minutes earlier, the stranger had left the Hotel. A five minutes' walk and he was at the top of the ramparts. This time, the soldier spoke first.

  "What's new in the City? What are the people up to?"

  "They were beginning to get fed up with the rats, so they got rid of them."

  "Good for them! How did they do it? Beat 'em up?"

  "No, they fed them."

  "That's no way to get rid of them. Tell me, what are you doing in the City? Are you all alone too?"

  "Yes, but I think they're sending me company."

  "I had company last night—just before dawn. I was cold. A horseman in a thick coat galloped toward me. When he got close, I saw he was a soldier too. He pulled out his sword. I said, 'Don't be an ass. I'm no Kraut.' He laughed, then cut his coat in two and gave me half. Funny things happen here at night. It's very interesting."

  Elisa entered her room. Following the Commissioner's advice, she had asked for a room on the second floor. She'd been given number 26. She noticed with satisfaction that it was almost opposite number 23.

  "Do you have everything you need, madam?" the maid asked her.

  As if talking to herself, Elisa said, "No, I need a great many things."

  "Can I bring them to you?"

  "No, thank you."

  Posey went out.

  Elisa contemplated her almost empty suitcase: a couple of nightgowns, a toilet kit and her copy of Géraldy for her night table. Petulant, she opened wide her closet door. It looked immense! What it wouldn't hold. . . . She hung up her gray coat which swung in the void like a mockery. She slammed the door shut and made a tour of the room. She opened all the drawers, memorized the notice on the back of the door, tested the quality of the sheets. Then she went into the bathroom, turned on the faucets and took a bath.

  She dried herself, put her clothes back on and sighed with pleasure at her reflection in the mirror. Then she walked downstairs and took a seat in the lobby to await the unknown.

  Her task that first night was simple; the Commissioner had spelled it out meticulously. One, she was to identify the man in question. Baudruche told her to sit where she could see all the guests' pigeonholes and wait until a man claimed the key to number 23. Two, she was to establish contact with the guest in number 23. Baudruche made no suggestions here, allowing that it would be a simple matter for a pretty young woman.

  She called a bellboy and asked him for a deck of cards. As she played successive hands of solitaire, she watched the guests come to claim their keys. Finally, a man took number 23 off its hook. Her heart leaped. He was young and slender. She lowered her eyes as he walked past. Suddenly all the cards landed on the floor. The man leaned down and picked them up.

  "What were you playing?"

  "Solitaire. What else is there when you're all alone?"

  Seconds later, the man was sitting opposite her, shuffling the deck. She wanted to try a hand of poker.

  To her great embarrassment, she lost all the money she had left. She showed the man her empty purse.

  "I can't go on. I haven't a cent left."

  He took her bag and filled it with the money she had lost. She was stunned.

  "It doesn't belong to me. I cheated. The next time you play poker with a stranger, make sure you don't sit in front of a mirror."

  She got up and fled. The man filled his pipe, lit it and took out of his pocket the note Baudruche had left him: "Pink dress, black and white gloves, black bag with silver clasp, stupid." How could he miss?

  They dined tête-à-tête.

  Later that evening, she took off her shoes, tiptoed over to room 23 and looked through the keyhole. The man was standing, blowing into a kind of black stick. She strained an ear but couldn't hear anything, went back to her room and closed the door.

  Baudruche was already fast asleep and snoring. His day had been long; his report was short. He gave a progress report on the ants and passed on Labrique's warning about the condition of the Church.

  The stone is disintegrating in spite of earlier attempts to repair it, windows are missing, walls are cracking. Only the large cross on the facade seems to have survived.

  I noticed that the two men in black, whom you once feared as a threat to your authority, were still in the Church. It is quite clear that your worries on that score were groundless. No one takes them seriously anymore; few are even aware of their existence.

  Then he turned to the Factory:

  Even though calm has been restored around the Factory, the Director has decided to continue payment of the risk bonus to his workers lest the workers think that the recent agreements were concluded only as a pretext to avoid paying the bonus.

  The production of the new part for the machine, as well as the one prematurely scrapped, are proceeding normally. The Director proposes that the young engineer responsible for this most recent contribution be named Chief of Technical Services. On the other hand, he would like you to consider recycling the refugee engineer responsible for the earlier mistake into another discipline as soon as feasible. He was tested and the results indicate that he is a technocrat rather than a technician. For my part, I do not see-where we can use him in the City.

  The weather report indicates no change so long as the cloud cover remains over the City.

  The sentry heard nothing last night, except for the sound of horses' hooves. No enemy has appeared on the horizon.

  8

  F O R O N C E , Baudruche did not join Labrique at the foot of the ramparts. He was fed up with the architect and his ants. It wasn't his job to fight a lot of insects. The rats were worth bothering about: they were aggressive, intelligent, clever and brave. A battle worthy of a man. But ants . . . They let themselves be crushed underfoot; they had only one defense, to keep coming back in ever-increasing numbers to replace their dead. Labrique could stamp on them if he liked. At least it might keep his mind off his wife.

  Esther was a strange female. No one quite knew why Labrique had married her. A red-headed giraffe totally deficient in the breasts and buttock department. But she seemed to satisfy Labrique: he adored the cheating, meddling, good-for-nothing parasite. . . .

  He tried to joke about it with Martha, but it bothered him that his best friend was a cuckold. Not that he didn't deserve it. He shouldn't have chosen such a woman. But it was humiliating to have a cuckold for a best friend. He had a juicy dossier on Esther in his archives. He was often tempted to take it home and place it on Labrique's plate to see what it would do to his appetite. But he knew he couldn't.

 
; Well, he could do something to get Labrique off his back about the ants. He could go to the Department of Sanitation. He did.

  An impeccable old man named Javel dusted off a chair for Baudruche.

  "I suppose you've heard about the ants on the ramparts, Mr. Javel?"

  "Yes, Mr. Commissioner. Isn't it exciting? I went to have a look myself. What activity! What courage! They are extraordinary beasts!"

  "I'd rather they were somewhere else—far away. . . . There are too many of them. I want you to get rid of them as fast as possible."

  Mr. Javel looked pained.

  "I can't do that, Mr. Commissioner. Anything to do with animals is outside my jurisdiction. My department is charged with overseeing the removal and destruction of household refuse, unclogging sinks, checking the cleanliness of school toilets. . . . This problem should fall within the scope of the Department of Civilian Defense."

  There was little in common between the Department of Civilian Defense and the Department of Sanitation. Where the latter was modest and informal, the former was a vast, concrete mass. Sanitation needed only one director, Civilian Defense had five. They worked at a steady clip, in an aura of deep mystery. Nothing had come of their work in spite of years of research, but when it did, it would justify all the effort and expense.

  To get into their headquarters required credentials and a pass signed by Baudruche and the Prefect or by one of the five directors who worked in relays to supervise the researchers who also worked in relays.

  Baudruche was not happy about the two directors who were on duty this morning. He chose the older and more knowledgeable of the two.

  "Mr. Paytard, can you rid the City of these ants?"

  "Those poor strays on the ramparts? A mere day's work—once we have the powder ready."

  That's what it always came down to: the powder. The great project, the City's salvation, the unstoppable defense against any and all attack. The newspaper was always full of it, especially when the population had been gripped by some irrational fear. The ramparts and Baudruche's men were nothing compared to the powder to which they'd given the name, "the powder of deterrence." Once it was perfected, its very existence would prevent anyone from even thinking of attacking the City.

  "Mr. Commissioner, what can you be thinking? Ants! De minimis non curat . . ."

  "Excuse me?" Baudruche said, unfamiliar with the language of Virgil.

  "I said that we hope someday to be dealing with an enemy more nearly our equal."

  "I know of no others, Mr. Commissioner, and if there were any, I would ignore them. Unfortunately, our powder is not quite ready. The results are very encouraging, but it needs more work, and we shall need a new appropriation. . . ."

  That's what it always came to in this department: more money. The Prefect had been pouring the City's money into it for years without bothering to count the cost, and it always needed more. Meanwhile the Church was crumbling away, there weren't enough schools, they were cutting the old people's pensions, they were taxing everything that was taxable and much that wasn't, borrowing money they knew they could never repay, just to nourish this vast mass of concrete. Had it all been for nothing?

  As he led Baudruche to the door, the Director whispered to him anxiously:

  "Mr. Commissioner, you have influence with the Prefect: tell him we must have more money."

  "I suppose your powder would roll right off the rats?" Baudruche snapped on his way out.

  Elisa woke up late and lazed in bed. It was so lovely to be alone. No smell of male flesh to turn the stomach.

  A woman is clean; a woman is appetizing, she thought as she stroked her arm. A woman is worthy of love.

  She rang for the maid. There was a knock.

  "Did you sleep well, madam?"

  Nobody ever talked to her like that back home. She was the one who got up, did the work, served. . . . And whom did she serve? A man. It was so wonderful to be in the middle of the City, free, with no duties, and impulse the only master. But impulse to do what? To get dressed? If only she had something different to wear today, one of the dresses she had tried on the day before. . . .

  "I'd like to see the blue dress in the window." They had recognized her right away as the Commissioner's wife's companion.

  "How much is it?"

  She had opened her bag. She didn't have it.

  "Put it aside for me; I'll be back."

  That wouldn't be necessary. They would put it in a box right away. She could pay for it the next time she passed by. Wasn't she a friend of Mrs. Baudruche's?

  "You have Mrs. Poulet's bill?"

  "Yes, Mr. High Commissioner; we'll have it for you right away."

  Baudruche took out his pen and checked the addition.

  "It seems to be correct. But what's this seventeen percent for service. Shouldn't it be fifteen percent?"

  It was a mistake; they would fix it up immediately; it would never happen again. But why was the High Commissioner occupying himself with something unworthy of him?

  Baudruche took several bills from his wallet. "I want you to give me all of Mrs. Poulet's bills. I'll take care of them."

  Aha! So that's what it was! The Commissioner was keeping his mistress in the Hotel. What a trump for Baidroume! But he must use it skillfully.

  "Why didn't you tell me you were interested in Mrs. Poulet! Forget the bill. I don't want questions of money to come between us."

  "Mr. Baidroume, give me that bill and mark it 'Paid in cash by the High Commissioner.' "

  Baidroume watched Baudruche go with a smile of pity. The Commissioner could go on playing his little game—and an expensive one too—but he wouldn't fool anybody, and certainly not him.

  Baudruche was no sooner home than Elisa appeared at his door. She was in a hurry; she didn't want to be late for lunch at the Hotel. She just wanted to report that things were going marvelously. They'd had dinner together the night before. Wasn't she doing well?

  "You must do better, Elisa. That man could be very dangerous. You must move in on him. What else has our man been doing?"

  "He went out this morning, but I have no idea where."

  "You must find out, Elisa. Is that all you have to report?"

  The door opened again, without a knock. It was Labrique; he thought he was at home everywhere.

  "Oh, excuse me, I thought you were alone. I'll be on my way."

  "No, stay. I have no secrets."

  He was eager to be rid of Elisa. "Have you anything else on your mind?"

  She took a deep breath; it couldn't be put off. "Yes."

  "What is it?"

  She said very low, "I need money. It's all gone."

  Impossible. He'd given her a large amount only two days before.

  Softly and with a slight tremor—as if she were in the confessional—she whispered:

  "I tell you, I need it."

  The Commissioner showed her into the hall.

  She made one last attempt. "Can't you give me just a teeny little bit?"

  He was inflexible. Maybe, in a few days, if she really had something to report.

  When she'd gone, Labrique slapped Baudruche on the shoulder.

  "Aha, you old goat! Aren't you ashamed, hiding things from your best friend. How long have you been carrying on with little Elisa?"

  Baudruche tried to defend himself, but in vain. Labrique was neither deaf nor blind: the stunning transformation in Mrs. Poulet's wardrobe and her manner with his friend had not escaped him.

  "So she's a little costly? At your age, old man, that can be fatal."

  Baudruche gave in and told him everything: the necessity of appeasing the Prefect by putting a fake secret agent on the stranger's tail, how he had chosen Elisa because Martha thought her discreet, and how the City was paying expenses. But the more he said, the louder Labrique laughed.

  "You think anybody will believe you? But I didn't come here to pry. I came to find out why you weren't at the ramparts this morning."

  "It's none of your b
usiness."

  "I want you to go there with me now."

  "Am I to have no lunch?"

  "Of course you are. Did Martha set a place for me?"

  "Don't you ever have any food at your house, you leech?"

  An hour later, Labrique was marching down the sidewalk, his hands behind his back and Baudruche at his side. Did Baudruche want to hear something funny? He'd just received a letter from the Prefect asking him to take on a big job, a building. . . .

  "For the Factory?"

  "Much better than that. It's for the rats! Yes, my friend, I am to build them a house, a palace, in the middle of the City. They love us, and they want to be closer to us. What do you think of that?"

  "I was expecting it. Well, at least you have something to keep you busy for a while."

  "I'll be busy a long time. It's a big assignment and requires a lot of thought. The Prefect says money's no object. He says it's going to give us cultural prestige. In that case, I can't fail him."

  "You will accept?"

  "With enthusiasm. Because I know no one will understand the problem better than I, and I don't have a ghost of an idea as yet. It's funny; the more I think about it the less I can figure it out. I don't know what's the matter with me."

  "For once, I advise you not to hurry."

  They had arrived at the foot of the ramparts.

  "On the other hand, I think I've hit on a good idea for up here. Could you lend me about fifty of your men for a day?"

  "I think so. Want them to bring brooms?"

  "Wait. Take a look."

  There were large stains all over the stones of the sentry walk. Baudruche put on his glasses: they were ants, obviously crushed under someone's heel.

  "Yes, I did that this morning. But there's something much more interesting over here. Come and look."

  Labrique leaned over the ramparts, swept the outside wall with his hand and came up with a gelatinous, reddish pulp.

  "Do you know what this is, Baudruche?"

  "No, but it looks disgusting."

  "You eat it every day. It's jam."

  "Jam? Whatever for?"

  "I said, lean over."

  About a yard below, Baudruche made out a long, colored band that stretched about fifty feet in either direction. It looked black toward the bottom. The ants had gotten stuck in it. Their invasion had been put to rout by a layer of jam!