The Walled City

by Marcel Clouzot

  "So what do we do?"

  "Burn the buildings, Mr. Commissioner."

  Firemen? Burn buildings? Clearly, madness was abroad in the land. Yet, it was either that or, by tomorrow, the same ants would cross the next street and invade still more houses. Baudruche thought of the nearby warehouses that contained the City's food reserves. They must be saved at all costs. He gave in.

  The colonel opened the window and shouted to his men to turn off the hoses and set fire to the houses. The firemen looked at each other blankly. The colonel explained his reasons and ordered them to attach their hoses to gasoline trucks. He returned to the street. The crowd took issue with the colonel, in spite of the fear his uniform inspired. Did he really mean to burn down their homes, their furniture, above all their machines which they hadn't had time to remove? The colonel tried to argue but their resentment increased. The newspaper was right: there was a secret reactionary party working to subvert the City and drive them to panic in order to seize power. But they weren't going to give in so easily. Fists started to fly and the frightened colonel called for help.

  The captain heard him and ordered the firemen to train their hoses on the crowd around the colonel. Baudruche, who had witnessed the scene from a third-floor window, rushed down. The people had taken to their heels, cursing the reactionaries and all uniforms. Some spoke of asking the rats to intervene. The High Commissioner's attitude did not inspire confidence. They discussed him in small groups, some defending him, others not. A few broke away and came to discuss matters with the Commissioner.

  But the moment Baudruche left, the arguments started up again. The evicted took issue with the firemen and the drivers of the gasoline trucks who had stepped down from their cabs. They mustn't do it; where were they going to live? Their apartments were all they had, and most of them hadn't finished paying for them. The colonel was unmoved; he gave out orders; the people screamed. At least let them save their machines! They bolted up the stairs as the firemen started to spray gasoline through the windows. Time was short and the machines were heavy; it took four men to lift one. They helped each other throw them out the window. The firemen were barely able to jump out of the way before the machines fell on the sidewalk with a thud, spraying them with muddy water.

  Everybody rushed down the stairs. The colonel announced he was about to set a match to the first house. The man he had given the order to hesitated. The crowd pressed around him, pleading. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Silently, his colleagues surrounded him. The colonel decided it was too risky to insist further and left with his men. He should have had written instructions at the very least, something to protect him. It could mean the colonel's dismissal or even a court martial. And with his retirement only two years off? He and his men left.

  The crowd crowed with joy, but their enthusiasm collapsed quickly. Where were they to go? Baudruche should have solved the problem, but it didn't look as though he were going to. So they loaded up their wheelbarrows with everything that wasn't ruined by the mud, hoisted the children on top and set off aimlessly toward the center of town.

  Occasionally, a man knocked on a door to ask for asylum. They weren't demanding; anything would do—a corner in the attic, in the garage. But nobody had room. Doors were closed in their faces, shutters clattered shut. Nobody wanted these kinds of people.

  The long file of victims circled the City’s center. There was no hope there; that was where the rich lived. Maybe they'd find something farther off, in the working-class district where the proletarian heart beat. The interminable line of wheelbarrows, groaning women and whining children wound down Poitiers Avenue. Once again the men knocked on doors, called to people in their houses, stopped passersby in the streets. Their tone was different here: less submissive, more familiar, sometimes even assertive. They felt at home here. And they were at home, but the results were no better: nobody had any room. The weary procession came to a stop. The men sat down where they could, on the sidewalks, on mounds of mud, while their women went off to beg for milk to feed their crying children. Nobody knew where to go. They were beginning to get hungry, and if things weren't better soon, they'd have to take down their mattresses and sleep in the streets.

  Some rats approached the line and engaged the people in conversation. They were very sympathetic: they too were on the bottom rung of society, and it was precisely because they were both have-nots that they should come to each other's aid. Some of the rat females appeared with glasses of milk and crackers. Faces brightened. No, they had not been abandoned altogether. The paper—and The Rodent even more—was right: these were their openhearted brothers. They chattered together and slapped each other on the back. The rats made funny faces at the children which made them laugh. People began to smile again, even to laugh.

  The rats invited them to follow: they were only a stone's throw from their own neighborhood. The rat homes were not exactly palaces, but they could always squeeze in one more. The men went back for their wheelbarrows and pushed them to the section near the Factory. The rats came out of their houses to invite them in—a far cry from their previous experience.

  Miss Bourrot was in a state.

  "They were looking for you everywhere, Mr. Commissioner."

  "I ran into Fisher who is still boasting about his explosion. But tell me, why isn't there any smoke rising from the southern part of town? I gave orders that the houses be burned."

  "The colonel of the fire brigade said the people wouldn't let him. And that's not all. The homeless are everywhere, causing terrible congestion with their wheelbarrows. They don't know where to go."

  "They had only to come to me, as agreed. I'll see to their relocation."

  "That's what your men told them, but they didn't want to."

  "Where are they now?"

  "Last seen, they were on their way toward the Factory."

  Baudruche took a few of his men and set off at a run. They mustn't go in that direction: he knew only too well what awaited them there.

  But by the time he arrived, the buildings were already being organized. Providentially, the rats had been sent extra hands. All the homeless had been herded into the largest courtyard and all exits closed off.

  First, they were given a thorough examination, their biceps tested, their mouths opened and investigated. Groups formed to discuss them. Then, alone or in families, they were directed onto a platform. Figures were called out, an occasional arm shot up, then a rat came to claim his possession. It was explained that this rat would be responsible for their shelter. They thanked him profusely and followed: he was too kind, they hated to be a nuisance, they would take up as little room as possible and make every effort not to upset their normal homelife. They were immediately reassured: the rats showed them into an attic, a corner of the basement, an outhouse, where they threw their mattresses on the floor. It wasn't precisely what they had hoped for, but it was better than nothing.

  "What about the rent?" they asked timidly.

  Those wonderful people didn't want any rent. The women and girls had only to lend a helping hand during the day; the men would be asked to perform simple tasks suitable to their superior strength. There was plenty of work; the choice would be up to them. There was coal to bring up, wood to cut, walls to wash down, furniture, bundles and trunks to move. And the flea market required a lot of work. Once the men were occupied, it would be even easier to find work for the women: to start with, what came easiest, work their sex had destined them for. If they resisted, they were threatened. And if that wasn't enough, or if they fought back, the rats called their own females to explain that here one didn't defy the males' orders. So, well pinned down, the most recalcitrant were forced to submit, sometimes under their children's terror-stricken gaze. Meanwhile, the husband was filling bags of coal in the basement.

  Once the act was over, the women sobbed and moaned. The females consoled them with slaps and packed them off to work. There was the cooking to do, the housework, the children to clean up. At last the rats had h
elp, an intelligent pair of hands that knew how to make those complicated machines work. The record player played as the mistress of the house stretched out comfortably to watch the woman polish the floor. The children were sent off to play with the little rats in the courtyard. The rat children had a favorite game, "rats and Baudruche's men," which always ended with Baudruche's men groveling in a corner, crying over their bites.

  The men sometimes complained when they came home dirty and exhausted, but then they were dragged into a corner; they would be sure not to complain again—if they were still capable of it.

  Baudruche returned to his office, sad and worn out. If they had only executed his orders, this new misfortune could have been avoided.

  "We'll never see those people again," he said to himself, climbing the stairs to his office.

  Baudruche took the Prefect's letter from Miss Bourrot's hand but this time he opened it slowly. It appeared that he had been wrong to get excited over a few houses in the southern part of town. Further along, the Prefect returned to the fact that Baudruche had failed to control his men. Public opinion was right: his ranks needed weeding out. The Commissioner was advised to begin the purge without delay. The Prefect proposed to recruit a militia of his own, capable of inspiring greater confidence. Baudruche knew what that meant: the Prefect was going to disarm him the better to have him at his mercy.

  He telephoned the commissariats in the outlying regions to find out what was happening with the ants. The news was reassuring except for the southern part of town. They must have thought they'd won a victory there, for they were continuing their advance, moving faster and faster.

  Baudruche walked over to the wall map of the City. The smallest street, the meanest house were there. A large blue area in the inner city was growing day by day. Baudruche sighed, picked out a red pencil and crosshatched an area to the right of the main gate. He must go back there and find out what was going on.

  He set off with a handful of men. As they were walking, Revere reported that a man who worked for the Prefecture had tried to recruit him for the Prefect's new personal guard.

  "He said you were going to have to layoff some of your men. Is that true, Mr. Commissioner?"

  "Were you the only one propositioned?"

  "No, Smith, Muller and Hernandez were too."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "To fuck off, but some of the others asked for time to think it over. The conditions are better, they say promotions are faster, there's better job security. . . ."

  "You tell them that as long as I'm around, no one will be fired except for bad performance on the job."

  "Gladly, Mr. Commissioner. A lot of men were beginning to worry."

  Baudruche had decided he would not allow himself to be disarmed as long as he still had options. The Prefect could "invite" Baudruche to lay his men off, but he couldn't force him to. But he could try to detach as many as possible, which was apparently what he had set about to do.

  "I'd better look out for myself," Baudruche muttered under his breath. He had reached the ant-infested district. The insects had crossed yet another street and were moving in on a new group of houses. With fire and water eliminated, there was only one solution. It was simple, it was foolproof, it posed no danger for the City.

  Yes, it was simple. All that was necessary was to put things back the way they'd been, get rid of the mud clogging the moat, open the canal that connected the moat with the river and let it fill with water once again, remembering to keep a passage clear in front of each gate. It could easily be done and would take very few men. But there was a "but." They would have to leave the City, go beyond the walls, and that the City's inhabitants would never dare do.

  "And I can't kick them in the ass. There are too many of them."

  He must talk to the Prefect. Until then, there was nothing to do but try to slow down the invasion with whatever expedient came to hand. That's what he told everybody who came to ask his advice. Then, with a feeling of helplessness, he left for the Museum of Man where the new President was expecting him.

  A small female with the shadow of a moustache asked him to come in: the President was at his disposal.

  Baudruche examined him quickly. He was thinner than his predecessor, meaner and more ferocious. His instincts were clearly discernible in his eyes. The Commissioner began—halfheartedly—with a frontal attack on the question of the women of the league.

  "But, Mr. Commissioner, why did you frighten them? Put yourself in their place: for an hour, they watched you agitating on the sidewalk, knowing full well your sentiments toward the league; then they witnessed with horror the cowardly assassination of their board and our government; then they saw you charge in at the head of your men. Their panic is perfectly understandable. They preferred to find refuge with us, and I doubt very much they will risk returning to the City so long as this tense atmosphere prevails."

  Baudruche broke in:

  "These women were inhabitants of the City. They were calling for help and it was my duty to come to their rescue."

  "In the City, yes. Here, no. You seem to forget they were under our protection, Mr. Commissioner."

  "You have a funny way of protecting women."

  "It's as good as yours. At least they weren't afraid of us, as we've proved to you. You look skeptical, Mr. Commissioner. Do you doubt my word? It is your right. But I have one hundred and ninety-nine written testimonials to the truth."

  The President handed Baudruche a thick packet of postcards. They were identical to those from Emil Poulet and his team and the same phrases were crossed out.

  "I know what your cards are worth!"

  "Mr. Commissioner, you are pleading a lost cause. Let's move on to the next subject: the assassination of the members of our government."

  "Assassination? What assassination?"

  "Don't you find it curious that the only table with the poisoned food was the one prepared by your people?"

  "That's not surprising. It simply proves that our inhabitants' food is bad for rats' stomachs—which I never doubted. I feared for that banquet. Something told me it would come to grief."

  "What about the Women's League? Their stomachs don't tolerate the City's food either?"

  "There is absolutely no proof that they were poisoned, and I don't believe it for a moment. But I do assume they were murdered. How and by whom is for you to say."

  "Why should we kill women who were supporting our cause? No, let's drop it, Mr. Commissioner. Neither of us has any time to waste. I have prepared a note which I would like you to read before I send it to the Prefect. It lists our demands as a result of the recent calamity."

  Baudruche took the paper and put on his glasses. It was insane—beyond his wildest fears!

  The President's demands included:

  1. An official apology from the Prefect, and reparations in kind for the violation of territorial rights committed by the High Commissioner at the head of his armed forces.

  2. A serious investigation [the word "serious" was underlined] of the poisoning, which must bear results, to be followed by the delivery of the guilty party or parties.

  3. Disarmament of Baudruche's men, as much for the security of the City's inhabitants as for the rats'.

  4. The right of their people to move freely above ground and to set up armed patrols to prevent a repetition of disorders like the one of the preceding day.

  5. The High Commissioner's resignation.

  Baudruche forced a laugh.

  "This is pure folly!"

  "In what way, Mr. Commissioner? Our demands are entirely reasonable. They prove that, in spite of recent events, our goodwill and desire for collaboration remain intact. It is a bare minimum, so that our people—who are naturally horrified by provocations and assassinations—do not escape my control and abandon themselves to other excesses for which I wouldn't dare hold them to account. You, Mr. Commissioner, should know what it means when a people flaunt authority and discipline?

  "As to you
r resignation, it is in your best interest, Mr. Commissioner. Better to resign than be dismissed, don't you think? And the way things are going . . ."

  "Are you trying to make fun of me?"

  "I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Commissioner. I speak the language of reason. And I wish to remind you that in spite of our hardening attitude—which cannot have surprised you—we continue to hold the same friendly feelings toward you. The proof is in the current issue of The Rodent. Here, take it and read it. You'll see that we ask only to prove the sentiments I've described. We appeal to your population to open their homes to our nationals and do unto us as we've done unto you, as it were: doors wide open to the rats. We showed the way when we welcomed those poor wanderers everybody else was turning away. We welcomed them; it made things a little tight, but that's all. And we stand ready to welcome still more."

  "I will oppose that with everything in my power."

  "Is that your view of individual liberty, Mr. Commissioner?"

  "I think we have nothing more to say to each other."

  "Not today, Mr. Commissioner."

  Baudruche got up, purple with rage, and left, gripping his thick cane. If only he could have smashed everything in there, but there were too many of them. . . .

  He strode back to his office, head buried in his shoulders. He wasn't going to the Factory that night. The machines, Leponte, advertising, productivity—they could all go to hell. The house was on fire and he didn't know how to put it out or even to save the furniture. Furniture? Yes, furniture. What were these people but furniture and things without shape or brains to throw themselves this way into the lion's mouth as if they were going to a ball?

  The last refugee climbed the disintegrating rampart stairs and called out from one of the few remaining spy holes.

  "Soldier, what's new?"

  The soldier barely raised his head, shrugged and resumed his original position. The man threw him a package. The soldier was too busy crossing out the days on his pocket calendar to get up and claim it. The stranger repeated:

  "Soldier, what's new?"