But, he went on, thanks to the Prefect, and obviously the Commissioner, everything was going to be put to rights. Yes, he'd been given his subsidy, and he expected to put out the first copy of the newspaper in the very near future. There was just one small hitch.
"What is it?" Baudruche asked nervously.
They had no printing presses, no equipment. . . . How could the President fight that miserable rag—The Liberated Rat—if the means at his disposal were inferior to theirs? A mimeographed sheet would be unworthy of their republic and could hardly compete with The Liberated Rat. They must go into battle with better equipment.
"You, Mr. Commissioner, can make this possible."
"By doing what?"
"Without going to any trouble at all. You have presses lying idle—the ones on which "The Independent" was printed before your newspaper swallowed it up. It's such a small thing that I don't suppose you even need to ask the Prefect. A simple authorization from you will do the trick, Mr. Commissioner."
Baudruche gnashed his teeth at the veiled threat of the Prefect's intercession.
The President continued: They would not accept this capital outlay for nothing. They were a proud people. Poor, but honest. They would be responsible for the maintenance of the building and the machines, and in addition would pay an interest rate of one and one half percent of the building's value, this last to be determined jointly.
Baudruche was reduced to minor defensive tactics.
"Do you have the money to pay us?"
"Where would we find money? We are rich only in hope, Mr. Commissioner. We will pay you out of our recent federal loan."
"What is your collateral?"
The President appeared stunned by the question.
"The collateral? Why, the loan you are about to make to us. It's all been agreed on. Now you see how productive our collaboration is for both of us. Had the Prefect refused us this loan, you would have refused payment out of our own funds (don't laugh, Mr. Commissioner, it's perfectly understandable). In that case, I would have been unwilling to use your printing presses because I couldn't pay you back, I wouldn't be able to print our newspaper, The Liberated Rat would increase its circulation, thereby strengthening the extremist opposition which would finally take over and we'd be back in the old days of hatred and violence. There's nothing like mutual aid, is there, Mr. Commissioner?
"While we're on the subject of aid, we have a serious problem. Like you, Mr. Commissioner, I am deeply shocked by the provocations in our extremists' newspaper. But you must try to understand these people: poverty is a poor counselor, Mr. Commissioner, and too many of our people suffer from poverty. Your donations of food provide a mere drop of water in our sea of distress. We can only relieve the want among the people who live in the immediate vicinity of the Factory. The rest feel frustrated and are growing restive. And that is why a copy of The Liberated Rat turns up in your path.
"The time has come to extend your alimentary aid to our entire population. Only then can we build a just and lasting peace based on mutual aid and generosity. . . . You don't appear to be convinced, Mr. Commissioner? I'm so very sorry our Mr. Canard isn't here. He's more eloquent than I am on the subject of oppressed people. But in any event the food deliveries can be increased by easy stages. We are a patient people, Mr. Commissioner!"
That was about it. The President reminded Baudruche of the urgency for getting the Rathouse under way: their need for living space was growing desperate, for it was hard to expand without inconveniencing their neighbors. . . . It would be wise to speed things up in order to avoid unnecessary friction.
As he made for the door, Baudruche said to himself: "The next time, he'll ask for my watch and my wallet and tell me it's in my interest to hand them over."
On the doorstep, the President startled Baudruche by giving him a hug and saying in ringing tones:
"Mr. Commissioner, together we are preparing for our mutual future."
There was a blinding explosion of flashbulbs and Mr.Canard emerged from the crowd. The President addressed him under his breath:
"I'll be all yours in a moment, dear friend."
Two or three hundred people had gathered around the ex-café. Shouts of "Hurray for Baudruche!" went up, and a woman thrust a bouquet into Baudruche's hands.
The daily visit to the Factory, which he used to find so irritating, had become a pleasant interlude of light banter compared to his larger torments. Besides, the recent difficulties with the machine and the fire at the Factory had put Baudruche in the driver's seat. He could have forced Leponte to resign or even had him dismissed, but what was the point? Another Leponte would have taken his place, since only Lepontes were left in the City. Of course, the best solution would have been the complete destruction of the Factory. That would have brought peace for a while. But the firemen had botched that one. . . .
At that moment, the stranger from the Hotel was scaling the ramparts.
"What's new down there, soldier?"
"You know damn well there's nothing new down here; nothing moves until night. Though I did have a visitor today: a girl, but she stayed up on the ramparts where you are."
"She brought you something to eat?"
"If you know everything, why do you bother me with all these questions?"
"I can't help knowing about her because I'm the one who sent her."
"Why don't you tell her to come keep me company? That would help pass the time."
"I can't. I need her inside."
"Maybe she has a sister?"
The man laughed:
"I don't know. It's not likely, but I'll ask her. What happened last night? They say they heard footsteps and singing."
"It was pretty much like the night before. There was still this fog. Then I saw soldiers marching past. It was pouring and there was deep mud all around. They. were trying to stay in line, but at a given moment, they stopped and piled up arms. It was then I saw they were wearing greenish uniforms. They were Krauts. They asked me if I wanted to eat with them. I couldn't refuse, but their grub was terrible! I told them:
" This is worse than yesterday's.'
"They asked me who'd given me food the night before. I told them. They looked interested.
"'They're the ones we're looking for. We're supposed to join up with them.'
"A sergeant started to shout and they left with their guns.
"They started singing—'Lili Marlene.' It isn't as good as 'Madelon,' but it's not a bad song. They disappeared just like the others did."
"Did they leave you anything?"
"Yes. An Iron Cross."
Baudruche was dictating his report. Among other things, he had to answer the Prefect's note of concern about the last refugee and his vast wealth.
"Mr. Prefect:
"There is no need whatever to worry about the man in question. The information I have would indicate that he is mentally retarded. He has confined himself to aimless walks around the City and seems uninterested in anything but himself. The only danger is that he may place his bank notes in circulation, but he has kept his word as we have kept ours. You have seen from the receipts affixed to my reports that I have been very careful to make sure he lacks for nothing.
"As for the Factory, Mr. Leponte desires you to know that, in view of the recent raise in wages, bonuses, new compensation, and the losses occasioned by the conflagration and by the two successive improvements, he will be forced to increase substantially the price of the machine. He does not anticipate any difficulty, since the old model will be presented as a modernized, functionalized and personalized machine, and its cabinet will be quite different from last year's.
"That is all, Miss Bourrot. Add the usual weather report and the report of the sentries. . . . What do they say today? They heard the sound of many footsteps at the base of the walls, singing. . . . Isn't that what they reported yesterday? They must be drunk. Type it up, and see that it gets to the Prefect right away. After that, why don't you go out and kick up your heel
s?"
"Who is that brat, Martha? You had a daughter and didn't tell me?"
"I think even you would have noticed, Robert. No, it's Elisa's daughter. I thought she'd be better off here than at her house."
"It's made clear to me every day that I'm no longer master of the City, but I did think I was still master in my own house. What am I supposed to do with her?"
"Nothing, my dear. All I ask is that you don't drive her crazy."
"She'll manage that all by herself. It runs in the family."
The door opened. It was Labrique. Martha had already told him that they had taken in Sophie Poulet.
"I didn't know you'd been carrying on with Elisa for such a long time. The girl is the spitting image of you."
11
"S O T H E YIt was later than usual when the give you no peace, Labrique?"
"I had another call from the Prefecture this morning. They're digging their spurs into my ass."
"I had a brief confidential note from the Prefect myself; he wants me to keep an eye on you. He thinks you're looking for ways to thwart his policies. I answered that I could vouch for your good faith as if it were my own."
"That isn't saying much."
"This is serious, Labrique. When the Prefect gets angry, he can be mean. Send them something, a plan, a drawing, anything."
"I don't have an idea in my head. But I'll come up with something someday."
"By then, I may not be able to help you. It'll be too late. I didn't want to have to tell you, but the Prefect said he's going to fire you if you don't change your attitude."
"He won't have the pleasure, Baudruche. See, I've already taken care of it. Make sure it gets to him, will you, and also convey my total indifference and contempt. May he go to hell. . . ."
"What is this?"
"My resignation."
"Listen; think it over. Try to come up with something."
"It's useless; save your breath. So long as they were giving me merely ridiculous jobs to do, I did them. But now they're asking me to cross the frontier and work for the enemy. And I'm refusing. I may not be much of a hero, but show me a bigger one around here."
"Me."
"You? What's so damn heroic about what you're doing? It seems to me you're aiding the enemy. I saw the newspaper last night with that big picture of you hugging their President. And that caption: 'Commissioner Baudruche says "We are preparing for our mutual future." , "
"I didn't say that; he did. And I'll bet it was that Canard who attributed it to me."
"O.K., then; get them to correct it in today's paper."
"You know that's impossible."
"And you know damn well that the moment the inhabitants of the City read that, they decide: if Baudruche can do it, we can too. Do you know what you mean to them—loyalty, honor, patriotism—all those words you don't even know the meaning of anymore."
Baudruche blushed. "You're going a little far, Labrique. You have no right to say that."
"Who will if I don't? You are encouraging the great mass of people to be even weaker and more susceptible then they are already, thanks to the machine—that daily dose of opium you and your crowd provide. When this business with the rats first started, opinion was pretty well divided. There were people who thought the rats should be resisted and pushed back down their sewer holes. But when they saw that you did nothing, they decided they didn't have to either. The others, the majority, wanted only peace, peace at any price and were afraid you were going to involve them in another war. Now that they see you bleating for peace and hugging the rats, they're delighted. Put yourself in their place. You used to be unpopular in the City. It is my sad duty to inform you that you are no longer. . . ."
Baudruche was silent, his eyes on the old paving stones. He knew there was some truth in what Labrique was saying. But if Baudruche had not been there, things might have been far worse. He rebelled.
"You'll never make me believe that an honest, intelligent and patriotic man in my position isn't more useful to the City than a no-good, stupid, cowardly . . ."
"On the contrary. The man you have just described is useful only when he acts out his honesty, intelligence and patriotism."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I'm not the High Commissioner. You ought to know. I think I've said enough."
Labrique looked at his friend and Baudruche looked at the ground. They remained in this position for a long time, silent, not moving. Then Labrique tapped Baudruche on the shoulder.
"I'm off. I'm through with the ramparts."
"I know; that's always the way. You leave me to face the burden that's gradually crushing me. Yet I do everything in my power . . ."
Labrique stopped and said with a dry laugh, "What about my jam? I haven't been paid for the jam."
"The Prefecture informed me that they were very sorry but they couldn't find any appropriation that provided for such an expense."
Labrique walked away, shouting over his shoulder: "They're all crooks . . . nothing but a bunch of crooks!"
Baudruche sat in his turret for a long time. Little by little, everybody who had shared his ideas had changed them or disappeared. Now, his oldest, dearest friend was deserting him. Baudruche looked at the vast City at his feet and felt as if it were gathering up its forces and pushing him to the very edge of the ramparts. One small shove and he'd fall in the moat. He moved away; it made him dizzy to know there was nothing behind him, nothing to give him support.
"Miss Bourrot, will you please ask Mr. Leponte to send Emil Poulet over right away."
Baudruche opened his mail, glanced at the notes from the Prefecture, and returned to his reflections as he waited for Elisa's husband. Labrique was right: he too had noticed how the population's attitude toward him had changed. The hostile, suspicious looks of old were gone; now he was met with timid smiles, heads nodded in his direction, an occasional hat lifted. Naively, he had thought it was due to a change in the people's feelings, but Labrique had understood it right away. The people were friendlier because they thought Baudruche had changed. Like a fool, he'd been pleased and gratified. Now he felt shame.
But at least he had an idea for Labrique's successor—not for the ramparts, of course, but for the Rat house.
Emil did not cut a proud figure as he entered. He was frightened. This office held bad memories for him. The last time, he had feared the worst: brutal punishment or the loss of his job. Not that it would have meant a financial loss; the Factory paid its artists poorly. Only the mechanics were well paid—those soulless materialists.
No, it wasn't the money but the fact that at last he'd found a means of self-fulfillment through contact with the masses. That was why, once he'd calmed down, he decided to write the letter of apology to Baudruche. To his relief, he had heard nothing more—except a few snide remarks about his wife from his colleagues. What then could the Commissioner want from him today?
"Emil Poulet, you are an artist! No, no, don't try to contradict me. I know something about these things. I used to paint a little myself. I saw your design for the latest machine at the Factory. It's a triumph! You get better every year. It makes me wonder if this job is worthy of your talents. You're capable of greatness. Which gave me an idea. You must have some ideas about architecture?"
Ideas? The Commissioner must be joking. He explained that he'd long since moved beyond that materialistic art. Not that he despised it. One must never despise something which can render the essence of life sublime. But he spat on architecture as it had been practiced heretofore. Had he concerned himself with architecture, he would have thrown everything to the winds and started from scratch.
"What you've just said is very interesting. It was an inspiration on my part to have you come. You are exactly the man I need, Poulet. Now, this is what I have in mind. . . ."
Yes, Emil Poulet was interested in the Rat house project, but only on condition that he had a completely free hand, and that he be given a team of technicians to realize his concepts.
Well, that's exactly what the Commissioner intended to do. He expected no opposition from the Prefect. Poulet could go to work right away, as soon as his year's work at the Factory was completed.
"I'll telephone him immediately to say that you've been transferred to the City’s Department of Architecture. Success is around the corner, my friend; the future is yours. You may well end up as chief architect of the City."
They concluded the session with a sense of mutual gratification. Baudruche had his misfit—the dreamer and megalomaniac he needed. He knew Emil had tried everything: irresponsible art, instinctive art, and art art. No wall he built could possibly stand up. As for Emil, he had found his second chance. He wouldn't let this one get away! He could see the Rat house already: a vast, streamlined, unsubstantial, almost diaphanous monument soaring into the sky—where the old market had stood.
With a single stroke, he had turned all forgiveness. More than that: he had erased Elisa's adventure from his mind. Men like Baudruche and he were above considerations of the flesh. He'd forgive Elisa everything if she'd come back. He would forget his old-fashioned, bourgeois prejudices.
An hour later, he was packing up his effects at the Factory and saying farewell to his colleagues as he sang the Commissioner's praises. But on the way to his new post at the Department of Architecture, a thought struck him. Was this offer Baudruche's way of making up for the moral wrong the Commissioner had done him? He couldn't be sure, but even if it were, Baudruche was a man who knew about life. If, after a while, they established a real bond (as he sincerely hoped), he might ask Baudruche to intervene with Elisa not to abandon him entirely. Then he would be completely happy. He had picked up a girl the night before and taken her home. But even with the lights out, he couldn't put Elisa in her place. She didn't rumple his hair the way Elisa did; she didn't have Elisa's way of murmuring, "My Poulet . . . my big Poulet . . ."
The Walled City Page 13