“Pardon me. I’m looking for the village officeholder.”
We can’t believe our eyes. Or our ears. Who is this gawker? A man. Long brown coat, khaki rain boots, chunky black plastic glasses perched askew on the end of his nose, a leather briefcase under his arm. He repeats:
“I’m looking for the officeholder.”
We turn to the Professor. The officeholder? The village officeholder? We can’t make head nor tail of it, nor any sense at all, for that matter. Our master adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses, squints, and, in a voice more shout than question, demands:
“Who are you? And what’s this officeholder nonsense you’re going on about?”
The stranger clears his throat, wipes a drop of rain from his cheek:
“This village must surely hold democratic elections. Who’s the officeholder? The person who represents its citizens?”
Ahh! He’s talking about the mayor! What a strange way of speaking, in parables like that.
Our Professor is unfazed.
“This is a private gathering, Stranger. You are not welcome here. The village meetings are held on Mondays. Come back in three days.”
The stranger scratches his chin.
“I’ll just take a room at the hotel then.”
The hotel. That’s a good one! The Professor sets him straight:
“There is no hotel here. Out of my sight, you miserable creature!”
The Stranger’s eyebrows shoot up and his gaunt face twists into the expression of someone attempting to look smarter than everyone else.
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find somewhere to stay. I have a job to do. Have a good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
He climbs the stairs, slowly but surely, a puddle from his soaked coat the only sign he was ever there.
The Professor frowns.
“More trouble, oh yes, there’s more trouble in store. Perhaps I should have gotten rid of that meddler right away. Oh, what have I done… well, he’s gone now. Trouble, my children, there’s trouble in store, I’m telling you!”
If you say so, Professor.
19
We haven’t slept since saturday, we’ve been so excited by the arrival of a stranger, an odd sort of city mouse lost in the country. At first we thought—oh joy!—he was a constable come to re-establish order, drawn by some rumour carried on the wind all the way to the gates of the city, but word quickly spread that he was nothing more than a scientist. His oversized glasses made quite an impression on Mrs. Latvia, who likened them to those worn by a German philosopher, no doubt one from the Stone Age, and Angelina White, whose door he knocked on asking for a place to stay, seems to have traded her usual rags for corseted gowns with all the requisite whalebone and tulle to resemble a lady from a great city. Farmer McDonald, who works night and day on the farm and rarely ventures into the village, spotted her near the woods picking periwinkle and daisies for her corsage, if you can believe it! We wouldn’t be surprised if the stranger whisked her off her feet into a life of debauchery, poor Angelina, she’s been waiting for her Prince Charming for centuries.
But Baker Leaven has no time for such nonsense, he’s never been one for modesty, except in Mayor Gross’s dreams, and he’s certainly not afraid to show it:
“Mr. Mayor, with all due respect, I believe I speak on behalf of my fellow citizens when I ask that you allow our Guest to speak. After all, ’tis a rare occasion…”
We have to agree with him there, it is rare indeed, just ask Sybille—she was there when they decided to build the road to the village—she’ll tell you: They decided the road would go no further just to isolate us, we swear it’s true, because when you live at the end of the road, squeezed up against the forest like a chain-link fence, it sure makes you feel like you live in the middle of nowhere. Now the Guest is getting to his feet. He’s wearing a grey suit, his hair slicked back as if he’s at Sunday mass, doing his best to appear serious:
“Good evening, everyone.”
He smiles at us, and we return the nice Guest’s smile, then Angelina White stands and speaks, the shiny soles of her shoes clacking on the floor, startling Cantarini, who had nodded off, he must have been dreaming about his native Trieste or his dearly departed Nicoletta:
“Mr. Guest is actually Mr. Census-taker.”
Angelina the old spinster is looking pleased as punch, she’s just said more words in one minute than we’ve heard from her all month, but it takes more than that to impress the baker, who crosses his arms and says:
“The Census-taker? And what exactly is he sensing here?”
The stranger raises his eyebrows, lowers his eyelids, puckers his brows, widens his eyelids again, appearing to delve deep into his thoughts before replying:
“I’m conducting a census!”
Ahh, he’s conducting a census, so that’s it, duly noted, thank you for the clarification, Stranger. We turn to Mayor Gross who, despite his limited talents as a public speaker, did in fact pursue an education somewhere, at some time or other, and has some understanding of science, or at least that’s what Morosity used to say at the late Lisa Campbell’s hair salon, and he says:
“The science of census-t-t-t-aking. B-b-b- brilliant.”
Well, at least there’s one of us who knows what he’s going on about, even Mrs. Latvia is looking disoriented, she hasn’t pulled out her wretched hankies and gone all weepy on us yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Fortunately the Census-taker sets the record straight:
“The science of statistics.”
There he goes contradicting the mayor, oh these city folk aren’t afraid of anything, we’re telling you, and now the dynamics of the meeting have suddenly changed and here we are, a room full of pupils hanging on every word of a master who licks his lips and announces:
“I’ve been sent by the government.”
We shudder. The government. It doesn’t get any higher up than that, any more official, we can assure you, and just knowing the government has a vague idea of our existence sets our stomach churning and our mind spinning.
“The government needs to know exactly who lives here. Their age, their profession, more importantly, how many there are, and most important of all, their names.”
That’s a lot of details, a lot of information for one man, even for a Census-taker, and we swallow nervously because, frankly, exhibitionism has never been our thing. Oh sure, there was the time Amelia Gross, flanked by that homely Bertha, decided it would be nice to paint a mural on the municipal office depicting each inhabitant of the village, but she ran up against fierce opposition not only from us, but from the priest, Mrs. Latvia, the baker, practically everyone. Only Lisa Campbell, if we recall, thought it was a good idea. And Sybille, of course. So you see, when it comes to censuses and lists, well…
“I shall proceed methodically. I’m told the inhabitants of this village meet twice a week, on Mondays and Fridays.”
What’s this nitwit talking about? We meet on Mondays, never on Fridays, someone should set him straight, already making mistakes, it takes a government official to be so wide of the mark, how pathetic, and Leaven doesn’t hold back:
“With all due respect, you are mistaken. We hold our meetings every Monday. That’s it.”
The Census-taker looks the baker up and down, duly noting his belly, it seems, and replies:
“Name? Age? Profession?”
The baker folds his arms and grunts:
“Beg your pardon?”
“I don’t have a lot of time. We may as well get started. Name? Age? Profession?”
The room goes still, except for Angelina White, who helps herself to a licorice from her handbag as we stare wide-eyed, waiting for the baker to respond.
“If you think a fool like you is going to lay down the law in my village, you’d better think again.”
Impressive. The baker’s finally letting loose and spe
aking as if he were the one sitting in the mayor’s chair, while Roger Gross, like us, passively observes the joust. He doesn’t even flinch at the baker’s arrogance. But the Census-taker isn’t distracted:
“Name? Age? Profession?”
Leaven knits his brow as he does every time he’s exhausted all his arguments, and folds his hands over his belly, then Mrs. Latvia stands:
“You don’t want to get on your high horse now, Mr. Census-taker, because there are some in this village who would put you in your place in a wink.”
“I’m certainly not on my high horse. I have a job to do and no one is going to stop me from doing it. This is a National Census.”
There’s no mistaking the capital N and the capital C, just like when the baker kept going on about his damned Petition, they take themselves so seriously, those two, and in another context they’d likely become best of friends, but now Mrs. Latvia chips in again:
“In any case, Mr. Census-taker, there are some who are not at the meeting. There are the children, and a few adults too, out of malice.”
“I’m aware of that, miss.”
Ahh, now it’s miss, is it? Flattery will get him everywhere, and the florist softens at the sign of respect, fifty years of worry lines dropping from her forehead, but the Census-taker continues in a serious voice:
“I am aware of that. But by attending the Monday and Friday meetings, I will certainly manage to collect nearly all the informa- tion I need. As for the children, nothing could be easier; I’ll go to the school tomorrow morning.”
He must be a bit thick, this Stranger, going on about his Friday meeting, perhaps Angelina White served him one too many liqueurs and they went to his head, and now it’s Mayor Gross who sets the Census-taker straight:
“My dear friend, you are m-m-m-mistaken. As M-m-mister Leaven m-m-mentioned, our village meetings are on M-m-m-mondays only.”
The Census-taker stiffens and adjusts his hat, like a detective in the movies, before answering:
“Well then, it must have been an extraordinary meeting.”
The baker and Mrs. Latvia mutter something, the mayor and Father Wavery cross themselves, and we shrug. What on earth is this fellow going on about? We almost feel like getting up and asking him, but it’s Roger Gross who addresses him:
“What is extraordinary, my d-dear Census-taker, is your obstinacy. B-but since it’s getting late, this meeting is adjourned. You will have to go about your b-b-business next week.”
“No, no no! Next week, and then what? I have to be gone by Friday, at the latest.”
“Mayor Gross said next week, Stranger. Surely you’re not going to contradict our mayor?”
The baker oozes condescension, actually it quite suits him, and it seems to work, because the Census-taker lifts his chin and his Adam’s apple glides up and down a few times like an elevator.
We leave the hall, our feet dragging, our steps heavy, eyeing the stranger who swings his arms as he walks, looking nonchalant and sure of himself, despite everything, and Cantarini, the old man who’s not afraid of anything, goes up to him, no doubt to invite him for a drink at Old Man George’s tavern, but the stranger strikes us as anything but the kind of man who drinks for no special reason.
20
The professor chews on the insides of his cheeks, pressing on them with his knuckles. It’s the first time we’ve seen him do it, and it worries us. He stares off somewhere in the foggy distance and constantly pushes his gold-rimmed glasses up to the bridge of his nose.
We know the reason for his torment; we’re looking at it. The Stranger, the one who interrupted our meeting last Friday, at risk to his life, has come back to bother us again this week. This schemer is either incredibly brave or a complete and utter fool. Because to come back and taunt the Professor, he’s got to be both brave and a fool.
“Stranger, what are you doing here?”
The Professor has adopted his bad-week tone, the bad weeks of smoking gun and corpses to be stepped over.
“I’ve come to conduct the census.”
Ahh, so our new friend wants to play charades, well, he’s about to find out that the Professor always wins at every game.
“No need. No use. Nobody here needs to be sensed.”
“This is a Mandatory National Census,” the Stranger fires back just like that, and it seems to catch our master off guard, but only for a second.
“Nonsense! No one asked for a census. Go back where you came from, Intruder.”
The Stranger cocks his head, crosses his arms over his big notepad, and scans the room.
“Who are you? What is this group? Why do you meet here?”
The Professor’s left hand trembles, he rummages in his jacket pocket, clears his throat, and retorts in a hoarse voice:
“We have every right to be here!”
“I never said you didn’t. I’m asking you what you are doing here, again, on a Friday. Are your Monday meetings not enough? Do you still have matters to discuss?”
We hold our breath. The Stranger is pushing it. He’s really pushing it. The Professor stares at a point somewhere at the back of the room. He pats his pocket, clearly this is a very bad day. We turn around, there’s nothing at the back of the room, nothing but the spectre of the unfortunate hairdresser killed in combat.
“You have no idea where you are, Intruder. You are venturing onto thin ice. Don’t come back here. Stay with them. We don’t want you here.”
The Stranger adjusts his big glasses.
“Threats? Are you the elected official of this village, Mr. …?”
The Professor smiles a tight little smile, squints, and says, in a more confident tone:
“Mr. Census-taker, there’s a huntsman in this village. An unknown huntsman. A man—or a woman—who likes to prowl the woods in search of wild beasts. But the hunter is reckless. He shoots without warning. He’s careless. His bullets tend to stray. He’s struck before. And the day will come—without a shadow of a doubt—when he strikes again. It’s not safe here for a stranger. Go back to your city. Follow the road, you can’t miss it: it ends right here. Follow the road and go back to the city, go see the government and tell them there’s nothing here. A trail that peters out at the edge of the forest, nothing more. No village. No meetings. Nothing. No one. You took a wrong turn, there was no census to be taken here. Your job is done.”
The Stranger doesn’t bat an eye. Instead, he lifts his chin and replies:
“Who is this huntsman? I need his name, age, and profession. Everything.”
Now he’s trying to be clever, well, he’s going to end up caught in his own trap because, we can promise you, that charlatan doesn’t stand a chance against the Professor.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Stranger.”
He sniffs loudly.
“Your job is done, Stranger.”
He says it slowly, pronouncing each syllable. And we all get up and leave.
21
This week baker leaven announces that he’s had enough:
“I’ve had enough!”
When a baker has had enough, which is rare because, frankly, they’re all as tough as nails—or is it screws?—suffice it to say, when they’ve had enough, we can tell you, everyone suffers the consequences:
“I’ve had enough, and so has the entire village. A dead woman, okay, that’s possible. Lisa Campbell, the victim of an unknown huntsman, alright, if you say so. Nobody in this village hunts, and the next town is thirty kilometres away, but who knows, maybe someone from the city decided to come flush out a pheasant or two. Next, it’s decided that Amelia Gross will have her wisdom teeth out and the poor girl is butchered to death. None of it makes any sense. Then Blanche skedaddles off with her Albert, just as Mrs. Latvia is about to hand over the Campbell kids she seemed so keen on taking. And now a Census-taker who wants to lay down the law he
re. Seriously, Mr. Mayor, seriously my fellow citizens, seriously, this baker has had enough!”
Doctor Harmer blows his nose into his large, rough handkerchief, his eyes weepy, as always, at the mention of the girl he mutilated, and Mayor Gross and Father Wavery cross themselves in tandem. The baker, outraged as he may be, does indeed have a point: when’s it all going to end? We think back with regret to last year, so peaceful, so pleasant, with the only tragedy the suicide of Mayor Morton, and we miss those quiet days of calm monotony. The baker has still had enough:
“We need to move! Look for answers! Shine a light on this business!”
Well, we’re not about to contradict him, except what to do, where to begin?
“Who is the Professor?”
It’s the Census-taker who pipes up, he’d been standing silently just behind us, we jump at the sound of his voice so close, and everyone in the room appears in a state of shock, but it’s Mrs. Latvia who finally replies:
“The professor’s name is Timothy Worne. Do you mean to say you conducted a census of the children at the school, and you don’t even know the name of their teacher?”
Well said, madam florist, can you believe it, the Census-taker goes out of his way to harass our poor little children, and he doesn’t even have the sense to write down the schoolteacher’s name, does he think we’re a bunch of idiots?
“No, I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about the Professor.”
This time it’s Mayor Gross who persists:
“The village schoolteacher is named T-timothy Worne, Mr. Census-taker, as Mrs. Latvia just t-told you. Now if you would be so k-kind as to leave us to our meeting, we would appreciate it.”
Our mayor seems to have recovered since Amelia gave up the ghost, he used to buckle under the baker’s thunder, and now he’s just put a man from the city in his place, who would’ve thought?
“I will speak if I feel like it, Mr. Gross. As a matter of fact, I have something to say to you all.”
He’s a pretentious one, isn’t he, he clears his throat and stands, straight and tall, in his mustard yellow overcoat, the one he had on the first day.
The Unknown Huntsman Page 8