And he walked off, at the same time fondling the holster of his revolver.
The civil servant from the Department of Special Requisitions (DSR) went round the entire district before finding another pillar-box. This one had not disappeared. He quickly put his letter inside and, once he heard it fall into the net at the bottom, he retraced his steps. He thought: ‘And suppose this pillar-box were also to disappear? What will happen to my letter?’ It was not the letter (which was of no great importance) that was worrying him, but the situation which could almost be described as metaphysical. At the tobacconist’s he bought an evening newspaper which he folded and stuffed into his pocket. The rain was getting heavier. At the spot where the pillar-box had disappeared, a tiny puddle had already formed. A woman sheltering under an umbrella arrived with a letter. Only at the last minute did she realise there was something amiss.
—Where’s the pillar-box? she asked.
—It isn’t here, replied the civil servant.
The woman was furious:
—They can’t do this. Removing the pillar-box without warning the residents. We should all protest.
And she turned away, declaring aloud that next day she would be lodging a formal complaint.
The apartment block where the civil servant lived was nearby. He opened the door with the utmost caution while inwardly scolding himself: ‘Scared of a door. Whatever next?’ He switched on the stair-light and made his way to the lift. Hanging from the grating was a notice: ‘Out of Order’. He was annoyed, irritated, not so much because he had to climb the stairs (he only lived on the second floor) but because on the fifth landing of the stairway three steps had been missing for the past week which meant residents had to take certain precautions and tread carefully. The Department of General Maintenance (DGM) was not doing its job properly. At any other time, the Administration would have been accused of incompetence, of having too much work on their hands, of not employing enough staff or failing to supply the raw materials. On this occasion, however, there had to be some other explanation and he preferred not to think about it. He climbed the stairs, taking his time, preparing himself mentally for the little acrobatic feat he would have to perform: to hop over the void created by those three missing steps by leaping upwards, making it all the more difficult, and extending his legs with all his might. Then he noticed that there were not three steps missing but four. He rebuked himself once more, this time for being so forgetful, and after several unsuccessful attempts he managed to reach the step above.
Being unmarried, he lived alone. He prepared his own meals, sent his clothes to the laundry and enjoyed his work. Generally speaking, he considered himself a contented man. How could he be otherwise: the country was being managed admirably, duties were equitably shared out, the Government was competent and had proved its ability to galvanise industry. As for these more recent problems, they too would be resolved in time. Since it was still too early to eat, he sat down to read the newspaper as usual, unconsciously inventing the same futile justification, or rather, unaware of its futility. On the first page there was a Formal Statement (FS) from the Government about the faults discovered of late in various objects, utensils, machines and installations. Reassurances were given that the situation was not serious and would soon be remedied once the committee appointed to investigate these matters and which now had a specialist in parapsychology among its members got to work. No mention was made of things suddenly disappearing.
Neatly folding the newspaper, he put it on a low table at his feet. He glanced at the time on the wall clock: a few minutes to go before the television programme started. His daily routine had been disrupted by events, especially by the disappearance of the pillar-box which had made him lose precious time. Normally he had time to read the newspaper from beginning to end, to prepare himself a simple dinner, settle down in front of the screen and listen to the news while he ate. Then he would take his plate, glass and cutlery into the kitchen, and return to his armchair where he would sit watching the programme or doze off until it ended. He asked himself how he would manage today without trying to find an answer. Reaching out, he switched on the set: he heard a hissing sound, the screen gradually lit up until the test card appeared, a complicated system of vertical, horizontal and diagonal lines, with light and dark surfaces. He stopped looking, absent-mindedly, as if hypnotised by that motionless image. He lit a cigarette (he never smoked on duty, for it was forbidden) and sat down again. He remembered to look at his wrist watch: still not working and he could no longer hear the tick-tock. He undid the black strap, put the watch down on the table alongside the newspaper and gave a deep sigh. A loud click made him turn round in a flash. ‘Some piece of furniture’, he thought to himself. And at that very moment the test card vanished and suddenly there appeared a child’s face with eyes wide open. It receded into the background, far back into the remote distance until it became a simple luminous dot, quivering in the centre of the black screen. Next minute the test card reappeared, slightly tremulous, undulating, like an image reflected in water. Puzzled, the civil servant stroked his face. He picked up the telephone and called the Television Information Service (TIS) and when they answered, he enquired:
—Can you tell me what is causing the interference on my test card?
A male voice curtly replied:
—There is no interference.
—I’m sorry, but I have just seen it with my own eyes.
—We have no information to give you.
His call was cut off. ‘I must have done something wrong. There has to be some connection,’ he murmured. He went and sat in front of the screen, where the test card had resumed its hypnotic inertia. A succession of clicks could be heard, getting louder and louder. He could not locate them. They seemed so close, yet so remote, under his feet or somewhere in the building. He got up again and opened the window: the rain had stopped. Anyway, this was not the rainy season. Something must have broken down in the Meteorological Unit (MU): during the summer months it never rained. From the window he could see quite clearly where the pillar-box had been set in the ground. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs, looked up at the sky which was now clear and speckled with stars, the brightest of them outshining the neon lights in the city centre. The television programme was just starting. He returned to his chair. He wanted to hear the news bulletin at the start of the programme. A woman with a tense, artificial smile announced the evening’s programme, and then came the arpeggios as a prelude to the news. A male announcer with an emaciated face read out a Formal Statement (FS) released by the Government. He announced: ‘The Government wishes to inform members of the public that the faults and defects in certain objects, utensils, machines and installations (OUMIs, in abbreviated form), which have become increasingly common in recent months, are being scrupulously examined by a panel of experts which now includes a parapsychologist. Members of the public should beware of anyone spreading rumours or trying to provoke panic and hysteria. Citizens should remain calm even when the aforesaid OUMIs start disappearing: objects, utensils, machines or installations. Everyone should be on their guard. Every OUMI (object, utensil, machine or installation) should be carefully examined in future. The Government wishes to stress the importance of sighting any OUMI (object, utensil, machine or installation), the moment it starts to disappear. Anyone who can give detailed information or prevent the disappearance of OUMIs will be duly rewarded and promoted to category C if classified in a lower category. The Government is counting on public support and trust.’ There were other items of news but less interesting. The rest of the programme was just as dull, apart from a documentary about manufacturing carpets. Disgruntled, as if he had been personally insulted, he switched off the receiver: classified in category H (he opened his right hand and saw the green letter), he would have to save for ages before he could afford the carpet he had dreamed about all these years. He knew perfectly well how carpets were manufactured. He
found it downright offensive that such documentaries should be shown to people who had nothing to cover their floors.
Moving into the kitchen, he prepared dinner. He scrambled some eggs which he ate with a slice of bread and drank a glass of wine, perched at a corner of the kitchen table. Then he washed up the few dishes he had used. He kept his injured hand out of the water even though he knew that this biological film was waterproof: it acted as another skin regenerating the organic tissues and, like skin, it breathed. Anyone with serious burns would not die if covered at once with this biological liquid and only the pain would prevent the victim from leading a normal life until completely cured. He put away his plate and the frying-pan, and just as he was about to deposit his glass beside the only other two glasses he possessed, he saw an empty space in the cupboard. At first he could not recall what had been there before. Holding the glass in one hand, he stood there gaping, searching in his memory, trying hard to remember. That was it: the large jug he rarely used. He slowly placed the glass alongside the others and closed the cupboard door. Then he remembered the advice given by the Government (G) and re-opened it. Everything was in its place, except the jug. He searched the entire kitchen, moving each object with the greatest care, examining them carefully one by one, before acknowledging three facts: the jug was not where he had left it, not in the kitchen, nowhere in the house. Therefore it must have disappeared.
He did not panic. After hearing the Formal Statement (FS) on the Television (TV), he felt proud to be a civil servant, a loyal citizen serving in a huge army of vigilantes. He saw himself in direct communication with the Government (G), someone in authority perhaps destined to become a distinguished figure in the city and country one day, and deserving of category C. He returned to the sitting-room with a proud, martial stride: went to the window which he had left open. With a commanding glance he looked up and down the street and decided he would spend his weekend carrying out surveillance throughout the city. It would be a stroke of bad luck if he should fail to get some useful information for the Government (G), useful enough to warrant his promotion to category C. He had never been ambitious but the moment had now arrived to claim his legitimate rights. Category C would at least give him much greater responsibility in the Department of Special Requisitions (DSR), it might even mean being transferred to a department closer to Central Government (CG). He opened his hand, saw the letter H, imagined a C in its place, relished the vision of the new skin they would graft on to the palm of his hand. He moved away from the window and switched on the television: the lamination stage in the process of manufacturing carpets was being demonstrated. His interest aroused, he settled down comfortably in his chair and watched the programme to the end. The same male announcer read the latest news bulletin, repeated the Government’s Formal Statement (FM), then went on to declare, without clarifying any eventual connection between the two items of news, that next day the entire periphery of the city would be under the surveillance of three squadrons of helicopters, and that the Supreme Command of the Air Force (SCAF) had given every reassurance that this surveillance would be backed up with other military equipment if necessary. The civil servant switched off the television and went to bed. There was no more rain during the night but the whole building never stopped creaking. Woken from their sleep, some tenants took fright and telephoned the police and fire-brigade. They were assured the situation was under control, that human lives would be protected, but no such guarantee could be given, alas, regarding the safety of property, although precautions were being taken. And people must read the Government’s Formal Statement (FS). The civil servant from the DSR slept soundly.
When he left his apartment the next morning, he met some neighbours conversing on the landing. The lift was working again. Just as well, they all agreed, for there were now twenty steps missing between the second and ground floor. On the floors above, many more steps were missing. The neighbours were concerned and questioned the civil servant from the DSR. In his opinion the situation would get worse before it got better, but he assured them things would soon be back to normal. This would be followed by a phase of recovery.
—Everyone knows there have been moments of crisis in the past. Manufacturing blunders, bad planning, not enough pressure, inferior raw materials. And everything has always sorted itself out.
A neighbour reminded him:
—But there’s never been a crisis as serious as this one or that has lasted so long. Where shall we go if the OUMIs go on disappearing like this?
And her husband (category E):
—If the Government can’t cope, then let’s elect one that will show some initiative.
The civil servant agreed and got into the lift. But before he could press the button, his neighbour warned him:
—You won’t find any door to the building downstairs. It disappeared during the night.
When the civil servant walked out of the lift into the hallway, he was shocked to find a square gap opening up before him. There was no other trace of the door except for the holes on the smooth surface where the hinges had been embedded. No evidence of any vandalism, no sign of any fragments. People were walking along the street but did not stop. The civil servant found their indifference almost insulting, but all became clear when he stepped onto the pavement: not only was the main door to his building missing, but all the other doors on both sides of the street. And not just the doors. Some shops no longer had any front or windows displaying goods. In one building the entire front wall had gone, as if it had been cut out from top to bottom with a very sharp knife. Anyone passing could peer right inside and see all the furnishings and people moving about at the back in a state of terror. For some strange reason all the ceiling lamps were lit: the building looked like an illuminated tree. On the first floor a woman could be heard shouting: ‘My clothes? Where are my clothes?’ And stark naked she crossed the room in full view of the street. The civil servant could not suppress a smile of amusement because the woman was enormous and shapeless. By Monday, there would be severe pressure on Normal Supplies (NS). The situation was becoming increasingly complicated. Just as well he worked in the DSR. He walked down the street, keeping a watchful eye on everything, inanimate or mobile, looking out for any suspicious behaviour as the Government (G) requested. He noticed others doing exactly the same and he found this demonstration of civic awareness reassuring although each and every one of them, in a manner of speaking, was competing for category C. ‘There will be room for everyone,’ he thought to himself.
There were certainly lots of people on the street. It was a bright, sunny morning, an ideal day for the beach or an outing into the countryside, or for staying at home and enjoying a restful weekend, were it not for the fact that homes no longer guaranteed safety, not in the literal sense of the word, but in that other sense which we must never forget: privacy. That nearby block stripped of its façade was not a pleasant sight: all those apartments exposed to passers-by and that fat woman going back and forth, probably unaware, without a stitch of clothing on her body, and whom could he question about her? He broke into a cold sweat at the thought of how embarrassed he would feel if the façade of his building were also to disappear and he were to find himself exposed (even fully clothed) to the public, without that dense, opaque shield which protected him from heat and cold, and from the curiosity of his fellow citizens. ‘Perhaps’, he thought to himself, ‘this is the result of building with inferior materials. In that case one has to be grateful. Circumstances will rid the city of this abuse and the Government (G) will ascertain beyond a shadow of doubt what has to be put right and what avoided in future. Any delay would be criminal. The city and its inhabitants must be protected.’ He went into a tobacconist’s to buy a newspaper. The owner was having a chat over the counter with two customers:
— . . . and all of them were killed. The Radio still hasn’t broadcast the news, but I heard it from a reliable source. A customer who was in here half-an-h
our ago, at most, lives right beside the building and he saw what happened with his own eyes.
The civil servant from the DSR asked:
—What are you talking about?
And he opened his hand with a gesture meant to appear natural but calculated to put pressure on his audience: no one there appeared to be in a category higher than H. The tobacconist repeated his story:
—I was telling you what a customer told me. In the street where he lives, a whole block of flats has disappeared and all the residents were found lying dead on the ground, naked. Not so much as a ring on their fingers. The strangest thing of all is that the building should have vanished completely. Only a hole in the ground was left.
The news was serious. Faults in doors, the disappearance of pillar-boxes and jugs were bearable. One could even accept the façade of a building vanishing into thin air. But not that people should be killed. In a grave voice (the three men, with gestures also intended to convey a certain nonchalance or distraction, had turned up the palms of their hands: the owner of the shop was in category L, one of the customers was fortunate enough to be in category I, while the other one tried not to flaunt his N) the civil servant confided his civic indignation:
—From now on we’re at war. War without quarter. I feel certain the Government will not tolerate any such provocation, let alone deaths. There will be reprisals.
The customer in category I, who was only one grade below his own, was bold enough to express some doubt:
—Unfortunately we’re the ones who will suffer the consequences of any reprisals.
—Yes, I agree. But only in the short term. Don’t forget, only in the short term.
The tobacconist:
—In fact, it’s always been the same.
The civil servant picked up a newspaper and paid. On making this gesture, he remembered that he had not removed the biological film the male nurse had brushed on to his right hand. Never mind, he could remove it at any time. He said goodbye, departed and walked along the street until he reached the main avenue. As people passed him, they were chatting with excitement and gathering in small groups. Some looked worried, others as if they had slept badly or not at all. He joined a large group being addressed by an official of the Armed Forces (AF).
The Lives of Things Page 7