The President looked doubtful. "As you like, Mr. Commissioner. I'm telling you this as a friend, and because it would be very unfortunate if we ever had to ask you to answer for crimes committed by people you were supposed to control."
When Baudruche brought up the subject of looting, the President suggested that a commission be formed to investigate, a commission made up in equal parts of inhabitants and rats, selected by the Prefect and himself.
Again, Baudruche understood. The investigation would conclude that Baudruche's men were wholly responsible, that he had lost control over them, that they had acted in defiance of his orders. He would be forced to agree to their dismissal, and with their disappearance would vanish the City's last hope.
Better to shut up and abandon all hope of reparations. Baudruche renounced his claims, for which the President thanked him in the name of both their people.
"And while I have you here, Mr. Commissioner, tell me, between ourselves, what has Mr. Poulet actually built in the past?"
"Not much, to tell you the truth. It was our idea that we should abandon the old conceptions and methods that no longer correspond to the new attitudes in the City. That is why, as you know, the Prefect preferred to pass over Mr. Labrique, for he represented a generation whose art and techniques are now hopelessly old-fashioned."
"Ah, now I understand. But I want to remind you that our ambitions are most modest. All we want is something solid and well built, in the manner of your own official buildings."
"What you mean is that perhaps Mr. Poulet is not exactly right for the job?"
"I didn't dare say it. . . ."
"I hope you will pardon us for our mistake. Our intentions were of the best."
"It's easy to make mistakes when you try too hard."
"Then why don't you send Emil Poulet and his team back to us?"
"Not so fast, Mr. Commissioner, not so fast! They might think it was occasioned by personal animosity, or a lack of confidence. . . . We will wait until they are replaced. They will be very disappointed, I know, because they have no desire to leave us."
"I'd like to be sure about that," Baudruche snapped back.
"And you shall be," the President said, taking a packet of postcards out of his pocket. "Read these, Mr. Commissioner."
"What are they?"
"This is their correspondence. I told them you wanted to hear from them, and I'm happy to say they all responded."
Baudruche took the packet. It contained a dozen postcards on which were printed identical sentences with the heading "Cross out unnecessary phrases."
"This is the only kind of correspondence authorized between our country and the City. I wish to point out that we don't have censorship. We despise such base police methods."
"But these cards are all identical. Each one has the same sentences crossed out. How come?"
"How come? Because all the men are of the same mind. I have to admit I admire such unanimity of opinion."
"I want to see letters, real letters. . . ."
"If it were up to me, you'd have them tomorrow. But we too have laws and regulations, and I don't think that you, Mr. Commissioner, with your well-known civic conscience, would ask me to relax them. And may I add that I would not be in the least offended if we were to receive the same kind of correspondence from our people now living among yours. I am not an enemy of your people, Mr. Commissioner, and I can prove it to you. Only a few moments ago, I had a visit from that blackguard, Canard. Guess what he wanted! He wanted to be an editor on The Rodent! I don't think he knew I was aware of that insulting paragraph in your newspaper. I confronted him with it and told him plainly that I thought his dismissal entirely justified.
"Your City is too soft on people like him. We would have been much harsher. Well, he has been amply punished and his disgrace is complete. Do you know where he has gone? To The Liberated Rat! That filthy sheet! He's found the right niche this time."
The last refugee was heading toward the ramparts. He leaned out and the soldier addressed him:
"What were they up to yesterday? Those were some firecrackers! It was like Bastille Day. I used to set off firecrackers when I was a kid even though it was against the law. Little Louis and I used to set them off between the legs of our local cop."
"Did they get burned?"
"Not really; besides, he had only one to burn; the other was wood. He'd have to come tell my father. Then they'd sit down together and have a glass of wine. . . . You know, you almost scared me when you told me about their new powder. But it wasn't so bad. It was like a big flare."
"But it was no joke. You saw what fell afterward?"
"Sure, I saw. It wasn't exactly spring water. And it stank, I can tell you. The black rain didn't reach me. It got only as far as the ramparts and quit. But what a stink! I'm not all that sensitive, but I sure was relieved it was gone this morning."
"I wish that were all there was to it. The smell wasn't the trouble; it was the rats who came out of their sewers by the thousands."
"Well, if you don't want rats around, you have to keep a clean house. Mud attracts them."
"Come in!" Elisa called out.
Baudruche appeared at the door, covered with flakes of dried mud.
"What's happened to you, Mr. Commissioner? Has another church collapsed?"
"No, this fell on me in the street."
"You don't need to tell me, Commissioner. Nobody dares go out; it's dirt and disorder wherever you look. You must do something, Commissioner. The sidewalks are filthy, the workmen are rude, the shopkeepers take advantage of you. . . . It can't go on like this. People are even saying that maybe the rats can put things to rights."
"If this continues, I wouldn't be surprised. But I've come to bring you news of your husband. I have a letter from him."
"He wrote to you?"
"Not to me, to you."
Baudruche gave Elisa the card from Emil. She hesitated before taking it.
"What does he want?"
"Just to say how he is."
"I'm not really interested. Emil—you understand, Commissioner?—is the past. I need to forget it if I'm to live. . . .He isn't coming back, is he?"
"I'm doing everything I can to see that he does. I have to admit I'm a little worried about him."
Elisa finally took the card and started reading.
"Is this all? He couldn't even write me a real letter? Why do you want to make him come back? He says he's very happy down there: 'having wonderful time, people are friendly. . . .' What more do you want?"
Maybe, after all, it was better this way. Her stupidity protected her from everything.
"Any news about our man?"
"Yes indeed, excellent news. He's just fine."
"I'm delighted. Anything else?"
"No, nothing. He goes out alone."
"Try to find out why he plays the flute in the Public Gardens."
"Oh, is that worth reporting?"
She was really too much, but what could he do? He was about to go when Elisa remembered that she needed money. Her lover also needed money, as Baudruche learned from the letter Elisa gave him.
She carefully counted out the bills, then she looked up. "What about Emil's salary? You could give it to me if you're having any trouble getting it to him."
"I'd need an authorization signed by him. Tell me, Elisa, how exactly does a flute sound?"
"It's delightful!" She whistled briefly. . . . "A little like that. But you have to be able to hear it."
Baudruche left. This business of the flute was curious: funny that Bicard couldn't hear it. Was he pulling his leg? He'd better not. . . .
Miss Bourrot looked at the clock. The Commissioner was certainly lucky to have a devoted secretary! Little Miss Niquel would never have shown such devotion. . . . He'd been gone three-quarters of an hour and there she was, still sitting at her typewriter, the door locked, trying to finish the report, while the lights in the windows around her went out one by one. She adjusted her glasses and re
sumed.
I am beginning to be able to assess yesterday's costs. I won't mince words: they are not comforting. All our storehouses were looted: the amount of food missing is considerable, and the condition of what remains is disastrous. The contents of the vandalized sacks were trampled underfoot and covered with mud. I am trying at this moment to salvage what I can. A detailed inventory is attached to this report.
We must now face up to the practical consequences of the disaster: it will be necessary to ration our supplies, unless of course you decide to suspend our commitments to our neighbors. It is my belief, Mr. Prefect, that you can take this decision with a clear conscience in view of the devastation they caused.
Also, I feel it is useless to ask the paper to conduct a campaign to moderate whatever animosity the population may feel toward the rats as a result of yesterday's events. The campaign would be pointless, since the police report no trace of even verbal resentment on the part of the City's inhabitants.
The Weather Bureau predicts no change in the weather as a result of the returning cloud cover over the City.
Miss Bourrot carefully reread the report. She wanted it to be faultless, or it would be like an act of treason against the Commissioner. She folded the pages, slipped them into an envelope, sealed it and tucked it inside her blouse. Then, as on every evening, she burned her shorthand notes.
Baudruche kept to the middle of the street, for the chunks of dried mud kept falling onto the sidewalk. It wasn't dangerous, just annoying. It turned you a dirty gray from head to foot—rat color. Martha was watching for him from the window. That woman was always anxious. Nobody was going to abduct him! Labrique was already there, shuffling the cards. As though Baudruche had time to waste on cards!
"Labrique, come into my study. I want a couple of words with you."
"Robert, there isn't time. Dinner is ready. You can tell Hector anything you like after dinner."
"He isn't hungry, nor are you. Dinner can wait."
Labrique sat down opposite him in the study. "'What do you want? Can't you leave people in peace after office hours?"
"The way you spend your day, you can't be all that tired. Listen, Labrique, this time it's serious. You've got to make me a plan, a few drawings, I don't care what, for that damn Rat-house. Anything to keep them quiet. . . ."
"I'd be doing you a bad turn, and besides, I want nothing to do with it. I've already told you."
"Labrique, I've got to get Emil Poulet and his team out of there."
"That's their tough luck. They had no business going."
"You're a heartless man, Labrique."
"Not toward everybody."
The Commissioner went on pleading his case, but Labrique didn't even answer.
They went into the dining room. Sophie was yawning with hunger in front of her empty plate. Baudruche had insisted she eat with them despite the late hour. The little girl amused him. But he had to get back at Labrique.
"Hector, I have a note for you from the Prefecture."
"What does it say?"
"It's a bill for cleaning off the jam you smeared on the ramparts."
"Tell them to go to hell."
"You tell them yourself. Another thing: you may expect the return of your wife any day now, lock, stock and barrel. It's her right. Wherever you are is the conjugal domicile. You can't lock the door on her."
"Don't worry. She won't come."
"Why?"
"I've set rat traps."
Labrique was impossible, always flaunting his agility with the comeback, always cutting him off. All the blankets were on his side of the bed. . . . To spite him, Baudruche refused to play cards. When Hector had gone, the Commissioner fell back on Sophie.
"What did you do today, Sophie? Did you go to school?"
"No, I went to the Public Gardens."
"Why the Public Gardens?"
"Because there's a man there who plays the flute."
That's all he could get out of her.
16
"D O N ' T L E A N on it that way, Shell. You'll make another piece fall."
"I didn't make it fall. You did."
"That's why I'm telling you to be more careful."
"What's the matter with these walls, anyway?"
"I'm wondering if they're not having a dizzy spell or something. It's normal at their age."
"Want me to tell you what I think? I think it's the explosion the other day that's attacking them."
"You're sick, Shell. You can't know more than the people who set it off. There was nothing to be afraid of inside the City. The danger was outside. So why should it do anything to the walls?"
"Listen, Beagel. There's a funny noise at the foot of the ramparts. It sounds like waves."
"Waves? You're nuts! There's no water around here—only the river, and it's far away."
"I'm not kidding. Listen."
Beagel strained his ears. It was true: it sounded like waves breaking against rocks.
"I'm scared."
"Why? You won't drown. Even if it is the sea, we're way above it."
"But they might come by ship and we wouldn't hear them. We wouldn't have time to get away. Stand up. You try to see."
They both stood up and cautiously walked up to the parapet.
"See anything, Beagel?"
"No, only the soldier."
"What's he doing?"
"Can't really tell. He looks as if he were fighting, but he's all alone. Now he's moving away. He's disappearing."
"Well, that proves it isn't the sea. He can't walk on water."
"Have you finished your inspection already, Mr. Edge?"
"Actually, it can't be done this morning, Mr. Commissioner. It's too dangerous."
"How come?"
"The stones are disintegrating. One could have a bad fall."
He explained in detail the walls' condition and how collapse could be imminent.
"Then who will do the inspection?"
"I don't know, but it won't be me."
"Yes, it will. Come on, up you go. You first and I'll follow."
Edge started up, turning every so often to repeat, "I tell you, this is madness. It's dangerous."
Baudruche was still unconvinced when he reached the top of the ramparts. They looked the same as they had the day before.
"Mr. Commissioner, come a little farther ahead."
They reached the spot where Beagel and Shell had spent their watch. Stones were missing from the parapet; some were on the ground at their feet. Baudruche picked up one of them; it felt like a sponge.
"What does this mean, Mr. Edge?"
"I have no idea, Mr. Commissioner. I am an architect, not a mineralogist. "
"You are neither."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Commissioner; I can show you my diploma. But I'm not staying here another minute. The whole thing is ready to go. All it needs is a flick of the wrist."
Matching his actions to his words, Edge sent a piece flying into the moat. He pivoted clumsily, teetering on the edge of the walk. Baudruche just had time to catch him by the leg.
"Get going, if it's all that dangerous."
Edge moved off, picking his way carefully. Baudruche gave a start: he'd just felt a sharp prick, like a burning sensation on his ankle. He pulled up his trouser leg and saw a dozen large red ants. He shook them off and crushed them with his foot. He noticed that the ground ahead, which was still covered with a layer of dried mud, was heaving as if it were alive. He broke off a piece with his heel: red ants were swarming under the crust. He stamped, crushed, killed, making a reddish goo, then a new wave of insects arrived to eat the corpses. Discouraged, he gave up.
Baudruche leaned out over the parapet. The ants were climbing everywhere. He looked on the City side; they were going down the interior wall.
Baudruche's eyes scanned the rooftops covered with mud. Whenever a small piece fell, a cloud of dust rose from the ground, covering the passersby. How long would this go on? What could he do about it? Nothing. Only
rain . . . but no rain came.
The sound of loud voices reached Baudruche's ears. The first workmen had arrived to work the pulleys. Baudruche ordered them back: they weren't to throw mud over the ramparts any longer; it was too dangerous. Better a little mud in the City than accidents. They were to convey this information to the rest of the gang.
The workers were happy; at last they were done with this degrading job. A good thing the Commissioner had come to see for himself how distasteful it was.
Baudruche put a piece of the stone in his pocket and went down the stairs.
The mud was almost dry on the houses but it was still like glue on the ground. The sidewalks and pavement were clean; that had been done with dispatch. The mud had been shoveled into wheelbarrows and piled in long rows along the gutters where it waited for trucks to come and take it away. Now it would have to stay there. No sewers, no moat. Nor was it likely to fly up into the sky and change back into the gray clouds that hovered over the City.
In this gray cityscape, Baudruche was just another vague silhouette. Since he was unrecognized, he took the opportunity to listen in on one of the lines of people outside the shops. They'd been forming in queues since the preceding night. Nobody quite knew how the news of an impending shortage had gotten around. Shortage of what? Nobody knew. So, for fear of running short of something, they wanted enough of everything.
Rationing would be very moderate, the evening papers informed its readers. There would be limits on the sale of bread, rice, potatoes, dried vegetables, meat, fats, wine, but only until the following summer when they would be able to restock. All other goods would be unrationed. Within the next few days, similar restrictions would be placed on clothing and unessentials such as string and library paste. They consoled themselves by reading the ads for the machine and a comic strip on the life of the Prefect.
Baudruche rapped on the Library door. No answer. He grew anxious and banged with his fists. The door opened a crack.
"The Library isn't open yet. Not until ten o'clock. Oh, it's you? Come in. I'm not obliged to open until ten and you are six minutes early. I don't like to be disturbed when I'm reading."
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