The Erasers

by Alain Robbe-Grillet

  Above, a scarcely perceptible accident has occurred: a corner of the skin, stripped back from the flesh for a fraction of an inch, is slightly raised.

  At the next table, three men are standing, three railroad workmen. In front of them, the entire table top is covered by six plates and three glasses of beer.

  All three are cutting little cubes out of three disks of toast with cheese on them. The other three plates each contain an example of the herring-tomato-hard-boiled egg-olives arrangement of which Wallas also possesses a replica. The three men, aside from their identical uniforms, are the same height and are equally heavy; they also have more or less similar faces.

  They eat in silence, with quick, precise gestures.

  When they have finished their cheese, they each drink half of their glass of beer. A short conversation begins:

  “What time did you say it happened?”

  “It must have been around eight, eight-thirty.”

  “And there was no one there then? That can’t be—he told me himself…”

  “He said what he wanted you to believe.”

  After having redistributed the plates on the table, they begin the second dish. But after a moment’s pause, the man who has spoken first stops eating to conclude:

  “It’s as unlikely in the one case as in the other.”

  After this, they stop talking, absorbed by their arduous problem of cutting.

  Wallas feels a disagreeable sensation in the region of his stomach. He has eaten too fast. He now forces himself to continue more slowly. He must take something hot to drink, otherwise he might have pains in his stomach all afternoon. When he leaves this place, he will drink a cup of coffee somewhere where he can sit down.

  When the railroad workmen have finished their second plateful of food, the man who has said what time it was resumes the discussion:

  “In any case, it was last night.”

  “It was? How do you know?”

  “Don’t you read the papers?”

  “Oh, you know, the newspapers!”

  This remark is accompanied by a cynical gesture. All three have serious, but dispassionate faces; they are speaking in neutral, even tones, as if they were not paying too much attention to their words. Probably they are talking about something of slight interest—or about something already repeated over and over again.

  “And what do you make of the letter?”

  “In my opinion, that letter proves nothing at all.”

  “Then nothing ever proves anything.”

  With simultaneous gestures, they finish their glasses of beer. Then, in single file, they head for the door. Wallas can still hear:

  “Well, we’ll see tomorrow, I hope.”

  ***

  In a café that is the image of the one in the Rue des Arpenteurs—not very clean, but well heated—Wallas is drinking a cup of coffee.

  He is vainly struggling to get rid of this cottony discomfort that keeps him from thinking about his case seriously. He must be catching some kind of grippe. Though he usually escapes minor ailments of this kind, it would have to be today that he doesn’t feel “up to snuff.” Yet he awoke feeling fine, as usual; it was during the morning that a kind of generalized discomfort gradually invaded his system. At first he ascribed it to hunger, then to the cold. But, even so, he has eaten and warmed himself with this coffee without managing to overcome his torpor.

  Yet he needs all his wits about him if he wants to come to any conclusion; for up to now, though luck has been with him to a certain extent, he hasn’t made much progress. Yet it is of the greatest importance to his future that he give evidence at this time of lucidity and skill.

  When he started to work at the Bureau of Investigation, some months ago, his chiefs did not conceal from him that he was being hired on probation, and that the job he would ultimately be given would depend in particular on the successes he achieved. This crime is the first important case he has been given. Of course he is not the only man to be concerned with it: other people, other services too, whose very existence he doesn’t know a thing about, are working on the same case; but since he has been given his opportunity, he should expend all his zeal upon it.

  The first contact with Fabius was not very encouraging. Wallas came from another division of the ministry, where he was very well thought of; he had been offered this transfer to replace a man who had fallen critically ill.

  “So you want to work in the Bureau of Investigation…”

  Fabius is talking. He examines the new recruit dubiously, obviously apprehensive that he will not be equal to his job.

  “It’s difficult work,” he begins, his tone severe.

  “I know it is, Monsieur,” Wallas answers, “but I’ll do…”

  “Difficult and disappointing.”

  He speaks slowly and hesitantly, without letting himself be distracted by Wallas’ answers, which he seems, moreover, not to hear.

  “Come over here, we’ll have a look.”

  Out of his desk drawer, he takes a curious instrument that looks like a combination of calipers and a protractor. Wallas approaches and bends his head forward, to permit Fabius to take the customary measurements of his forehead. This is a regulation formality. Wallas knows that; he has already taken his own approximate measurements with a tape-measure: he is slightly over the compulsory square centimeters.

  “One hundred-fourteen… Forty-three.”

  Fabius takes a slip of paper to make the calculation.

  “Now let’s see. One hundred-fourteen multiplied by forty-three. Three times four, twelve; three times one, three, and one makes four; three times one, three. Four times four, sixteen; four times one, four and one makes five; four times one, four. Two; six and four, ten: zero; five and three, eight, and one makes nine; four. Four thousand nine hundred and two… That’s not so good, young man.”

  Fabius stares at him mournfully, shaking his head.

  “But Monsieur,” Wallas protests politely, “I made the calculation myself and…”

  “Four thousand nine hundred and two. Forty-nine square centimeters of frontal surface; you have to have at least fifty, you know.”

  “But Monsieur, I…”

  “Well, since you’ve come recommended, I’m going to hire you—on probation… Maybe some good hard work will help you gain a few millimeters. We’ll decide about that after your first important case.”

  Suddenly in a hurry, Fabius takes from his desk a rubber stamp which he first presses on an ink pad, and afterward nervously taps on his new man’s transfer sheet; then, with the same automatic gesture, he vigorously adds a second stamp right in the middle of Wallas’ forehead, shouting:

  “Ready for service!”

  Wallas wakes up with a start. His forehead has just bumped against the edge of the table. He straightens up and drinks the rest of his cold coffee with disgust.

  Having examined the check stuck under the saucer by the waiter, he stands up and tosses a coin on the counter as he passes. He goes out without waiting for his change. “For service” as he was told by…

  “Well, Monsieur, did you find your post office?”

  Wallas turns around. Still under the effect of his brief somnolence, he has not noticed the woman in an apron who is washing the window.

  “Yes, I did; thank you.”

  It is the woman with the broom who was washing the sidewalk this morning—in this very place.

  “And it was open?”

  “No, not until eight.”

  “Then you should have listened to me! The one in the Rue Jonas was just as good.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t mind the walk, though,” Wallas answers as he leaves.

  On his way to the Rue Jonas, he considers the best way to obtain information about the man in the torn raincoat. Despite his reluctance and Fabius advice, it will be necessary for him to reveal his profession: it is impossible to start up a conversation with all six employees, one after the other, on some ordinary excuse as though by chance. I
t would therefore be best to ask the postmaster to call his staff together for a brief conference. Wallas will give the description of the man, who must have come in last night between five-thirty and six—unfortunately a busy time. (According to the statements—which agree on this point—of Madame Bax and the drunk, the scene at the fence occurred at nightfall, that is, around five o’clock.)

  The hat, the raincoat, the approximate height, the general manner…He does not know much that’s very exact. Should he add that the man looks like himself? This may disturb the witnesses to no purpose, for this resemblance is quite problematical—and, in any case, subjective.

  The employees are all in their places now, though the electric clock indicates only one-thirty. Wallas assumes a preoccupied expression and walks past the windows while examining the signs above them:

  “Postage Prepaid. Stamps in Sheets. Surcharges. Parcel Post. Air Mail.”

  “Parcel Post. Stamps. Registered Letters. Special Delivery. Registered Letters and Packages.”

  “Stamps. Money Orders: Postal Orders, Checks, International Money Orders.”

  “Savings Bank. Pension Coupons. Pensions and Retirement. Stamps. Money Orders Cashed.”

  “Telegrams. Telegraph Money Orders Sent and Cashed. Telephone Payments and Surcharges.”

  “Telegrams. Pneumatic Correspondence. Poste Restante. Stamps.”

  Behind the window, the girl raises her head and looks at him. She smiles and says as she turns around toward a set of pigeonholes on the wall:

  “There’s a letter for you.”

  As she looks through the packet of envelopes she has just taken out of one of the pigeonholes, she adds: “I didn’t recognize you right away with that overcoat.”

  “It’s because it’s not as warm today,” Wallas says.

  “Winter’s coming now,” the young woman answers.

  Just as she is about to give him the letter, she asks with a sudden and satirical respect for the regulations:

  “Do you have your card, Monsieur?”

  Wallas thrusts his hand into the inside pocket of his overcoat. The registration card is not there, of course; he will explain “orgetting it by the fact that he has changed his clothes. But le does not have time to act out this little comedy.

  “You know you gave it in last night,” she says. “I shouldn’t 3e giving you any mail any more, since you aren’t registered here any more; but since the box hasn’t been bought by anyone else yet, it doesn’t matter.”

  She hands him a crumpled envelope: “Monsieur Andre WS. Post Office 5, 2 Rue Jonas. No. 326 D.” The word “Pneumatic” is written in the left corner.

  “Has it been here long?” Wallas asks.

  “Just after you came in, this morning. It must have been quarter to twelve, or twelve. You see, you were right to come back, in spite of what you told me. There isn’t even any address on the back to forward it to. I wouldn’t have known what to do with it.”

  “It was sent at ten-forty,” Wallas remarks, examining the postmarks.

  “Ten-forty?…You should have had it this morning. There was probably some delay in sending it. You were right to stop by again.”

  “Oh,” Wallas says, “it can’t be very important.”

  4

  “In my opinion, this letter proves nothing at all.” Laurent flattens the sheet out on his desk with his open hand. “Then nothing ever proves anything.”

  “But,” the commissioner remarks, “that’s what I just finished telling you.”

  As though to console Wallas, he adds:

  “Let’s put it this way: with this letter, you can prove anything you want—you can always prove whatever you want—for instance, that you are the murderer: the post office employee recognized you, and your name has a certain resemblance to this discreet ‘WS’ that indicates it. You don’t happen to be named Andre, do you?”

  Wallas finds himself faced again with the commissioner’s jokes. He nevertheless answers, out of civility:

  “Anyone can have letters sent to him under any name. All you need to do is buy a postal number; no one asks for the purchaser’s real identity. The latter could just as well get himself called ‘Daniel Dupont’ or ‘Chief Commissioner Laurent.’ It’s only unfortunate that we haven’t discovered the place where he received his mail sooner; we would have picked it up this morning too. I repeat that you have to send a man to the Rue Jonas right away, to wait for his possible return; however, since he himself told them he wouldn’t be back, this precaution will probably be of no use. All we can do is send for that girl and question her. Maybe she’ll give us some clue.”

  “Don’t get excited,” Laurent begins, “keep calm. Actually, I don’t see any reason why this Monsieur WS should be the murderer. What do you really know, when you come down to facts? With the help of a fanciful woman and a drunk man, you’ve been induced to accept mail, some mail that didn’t belong to you from a poste restante window. (Please note, by the way, that this is absolutely irregular: in this country, the police have no right to force the postal authorities to hand over private correspondence; you must have a court order for that.) All right. Who was this letter addressed to? To a man who looks like you. On the other hand, you also happen to resemble (though the testimony is more suspect) someone who is supposed to have walked past the little house and “stuck his arm between the bars of the fence” at around five o’clock. You have decided, consequently, that this person then went into this same post office. All right. That would certainly be a coincidence—which the letter in question should explain. But just what does this letter say? That the sender (who signs himself J.B.) will expect this ‘Andre WS’ sooner than they had previously arranged (“after quarter to twelve”)—unfortunately the location of their rendezvous is not specified; that, because of the defection of a third person designated by the letter G, this same WS will need the whole afternoon to do some job, concerning which we are given no clues except that part of it was already completed yesterday (besides, you have to admit that one wonders what could still be done as regards Dupont’s murder). Aside from that, I can find only a little phrase whose meaning neither you nor I can figure out, but which we can probably dismiss as secondary—you agree with me on that. Finally, to finish up, we find that one word is illegible in one of the sentences you consider indicative—a word of seven or eight letters that looks like ‘ellipse’ or ‘eclipse’ or that could be ‘align’ or ‘idem’ or a lot of other things.”

  Laurent then declares that the possession of a postal box does not indicate necessarily criminal intentions any more than the use of a pseudonym. The city’s six post offices have a total of several thousand addressees of this nature. Some of the latter—less than a quarter, it appears—carry on a purely sentimental or para-sentimental correspondence. One must also include about the same number of more or less fictional commercial-philanthropic enterprises such as marriage agencies, employment offices, Hindu fakirs, astrologists, spiritual mentors,…etc. The rest, say more than half, consists of businessmen of whom only a tiny proportion are actually crooks.

  The pneumatic message has been sent from post office number 3, the one serving the inner harbor and the northeast suburbs. It is, as always, a matter of a sale of wood, or of some operation relating to it: adjudication, transportation, cargo or some such thing. Since the market suffers extremely variable daily fluctuations, it is essential for the middle men to know how to take advantage of it quickly; a delay of twenty-four hours in a transaction can sometimes ruin a man.

  J.B. is a commission-merchant (perhaps unlicensed—it isn’t necessarily so). G and Andre WS are two of his agents. They cooperated yesterday on a deal which is to be closed tonight. Without G’s cooperation, the second agent must be on hand sooner than usual in order not to be left behind.

  5

  Wallas is alone again, walking through the streets.

  This time he is going to see Doctor Juard; as Laurent has just repeated to him: that is the first thing to do. He has managed t
o obtain the cooperation of the municipal police in the surveillance of the little post office and the questioning of the young woman working there. But he could see that the commissioner’s mind was henceforth made up: there is no terrorist organization, Daniel Dupont has killed himself. This is the only explanation Laurent regards as reasonable; he admits that “minor details” are temporarily at variance with this notion, yet each new element that is brought to his attention immediately becomes an additional proof of suicide.

  This is the case, for instance, with regard to the revolver which Wallas has found in the professor’s house. The caliber of the weapon corresponds to that of the bullet turned in by the doctor; and this bullet just happens to be missing from the clip. Finally, and most significant to the commissioner’s way of thinking, the revolver was jammed. This fact, determined in the police laboratories, would be a capital one: it explains why Dupont, merely wounded by his first bullet, did not fire a second shot. Instead of being ejected normally, the shell has remained jammed inside; this is why it has not been found on the floor in the study. As for the rather blurred fingerprints taken from the grip, their arrangement is not incompatible with the gesture the commissioner has imagined: the index finger on the trigger as though to fire straight ahead, but the elbow stuck out and the wrist twisted in such a way that the muzzle of the gun is pressed, at only a slight angle, between the two ribs. Despite this inconvenient position, the weapon must be held firmly so that it remains in place…

  ***

  A deafening shock in the chest, immediately followed by an extremely sharp pain in the right arm; then nothing more-then nausea, which is certainly not death. Dupont stares at his revolver with astonishment.

  His right arm moves without difficulty, his head is clear, the rest of his body would also respond if he called upon it to do so. He is nevertheless certain of having felt the detonation and the rending of his flesh in the region of his heart. He should be dead; now he finds himself sitting at his desk as if nothing had happened. The bullet must have swerved. He must finish the job as soon as possible.