“I am not here to take away anything whatsoever from you. I am not here to cause you any harm. In my entire life, I have never seen—and believe me, I have travelled many a country road—such a backward, close-minded village as yours. You think I don’t see you during the week when I knock on your doors and you pull the curtains closed like a bunch of cowards. You think I’m doing this job to harm you. What is it you’re worried about? What is it you’re frightened of? I’ve been here for two weeks, and the only thing I’ve managed to collect is the name and age of Miss White—and I won’t tell you what I had to do to pry that information out of her—and the names and ages of the children, but only after literally extracting the details from their mouths by plying them with licorice drops, which for some inexplicable reason they all seem to love.”
So our Angelina cracked, we should have guessed, she’s been dolling herself up like a showgirl ever since she took in the Stranger, one languishing look was probably all it took to have her eating out of his hand, that’s for sure, what a shame, Mrs. Latvia reaches for her hankie:
“Angelina, not you… how could you do that to us?”
“Do what? I’m simply gathering the information I need and I’m off! The faster you co-operate, the sooner I’ll be gone. What could be so terrible about providing one’s name, date of birth, and occupation?”
We wonder whether he really has any idea what he’s saying, this strange Census-taker, with his mad scientist glasses and eccentric overcoat, if he thinks a city slicker is going to come identify us, make us leave our church, and line us up in the village square like a band of thieves, ask us our name, our age, list us, count us like cattle, well no thank you, and for once we’re in agreement with the baker: we will not be pushed around. This Stranger is the cherry on the sundae that broke the camel’s back. After everything that has plagued us this year, all we want is a return to the simple life. Mrs. Latvia appears to agree:
“All we asked is to carry on like we did before all this started. All we wanted was to meet here on Mondays to work out our little problems. We didn’t need all this nonsense, all this upset. Good heavens! The Lord really is testing his Latvia, alas, poor Poland!”
And there she goes filling up her hankie. At the mention of her native Poland, the florist’s tears flow ever more ardently, and old Cantarini rubs her back, he doesn’t miss an opportunity, that one. The Census-taker takes up the charge again:
“Who is the Professor?”
His stupid questions are really getting on our nerves now, we clench our jaw, clench our fists, if we weren’t holding ourself back we would probably already be rearranging the man’s face, and needless to say, not in a nice way, and as if to drive home our point, Mayor Gross explodes:
“It’s Mr. Worne!”
Not a single repeated consonant, goodness, he’s really made progress recently, our elected official—ahh, now we sound like that damned Census-taker and, speak of the devil, here he comes jumping in again:
“I’m asking you who the Professor is. Not the schoolteacher. The Professor. The other elected official. The Professor.”
The other elected official? If we’d known we needed to elect two mayors, we would’ve voted for Leaven, too, at the same time, no one ever tells us anything in this village, but we’re not the only ones looking stunned: Leaven himself is lost. He raises his arms, a momentary pacifist, and proclaims:
“This whole sad story is one big ball of yarn. We need to unravel it one skein at a time. We’ve come this far, I think it’s worth listening to the Census-taker. Go on, speak. What’s this business about another elected official?”
Such a wise fellow that baker, really, Roger Gross will always be a disappointment for his lack of willpower and authority, and anyway, why not listen to what this city fool has to say, perhaps he can help enlighten our village, a place that’s been too long in the dark.
“Do you mean to say you don’t know the Professor’s identity? You’re not aware of his existence? Come, come…”
This Census-taker is annoying, heaping scorn on us like that, since we asked him to speak, you’d think he could at least get straight to the point instead of treating us like the morons we’re not.
“And yet… I recognize quite a few faces here that know only too well what I’m talking about. Well, since you asked, let me tell you what I have seen since I arrived in this village. The fact is that every Friday—”
“It’s getting late, my children, very late. We should adjourn this meeting and all turn in, isn’t that so, Mayor Gross?”
It’s Father Wavery who’s spoken, his forehead slick with sweat, perhaps it’s getting late for him at his ripe old age, mind you there’s nothing stopping him from heading for bed at the presbytery, as the baker points out. But the priest stays put and sits back down, looking a little grey around the gills, his health is obviously in decline. The baker says:
“Carry on, Census-taker.”
We prick up our ears, he opens his mouth:
“The fact is that every Friday…”
22
We hunker down on friday. We wait, in the dark and silence. The Professor has made it known he won’t be holding a meeting. We mustn’t go to the church. We mustn’t make a sound. We don’t know where we are. But we must not be at the church, that much is clear. We must be somewhere else.
23
This week we arrive at the Monday meeting with the certitude—hurray!—yes, the certitude, the very first in weeks, months, and at last we breathe freely because everyone knows that life is a constant quest for certitudes that oxygenate the brain, that’s no doubt how Harmer, the old scholar, would put it, in any case our neurons are snapping and popping thanks to this certitude we know will be revealed tonight because that’s what certitudes do—they bring the truth to light, the one and only, reassuring, and smug truth. What joy to be able to finally shout it out, loud and clear, in unison, like the hymn of a community divided for too long by tragedy and opprobrium—ahh, this week has recentred us so profoundly we feel awakening within us the spirit of a writer or perhaps a poet, it has confirmed once again that good always triumphs over evil—in the movies, in books, at the hair salon, and at church, and speaking of church, Father Wavery has made up his mind to speak:
“My children, this week has, once again, served us up a great divine lesson.”
As usual he lays it on good and thick with the whole divinity thing, but what else would you expect from a priest, and in any case, our bliss is so immense that his holy roller speech isn’t going to spoil it, and off he goes again:
“As I’m sure you know, Mayor Gross, Baker Leaven, and myself came here last Friday evening to see whether there was any truth to the Census-taker’s statements about the existence of a secret gathering.”
What nerve he had, that accursed Census-taker, now that we think about it! He changed his tune soon enough, he can brag all he wants about living in a city and working in the realm of officialdom in a national capacity, oh how good it feels to talk that way.
“That’s right, my little ones, we came here Friday evening. And as many of you no doubt already know, we didn’t find a thing. There was no one. Not a soul. Simply the invisible, eternal presence of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
We all explode with joy, we haven’t experienced such happiness for so very long, three months to be exact, even Sybille must be able to hear us deep in her forest, where perhaps she’s sacrificing a mole to celebrate this blessed day, goodness we sound like Father Wavery, who hasn’t said his last word:
“The Census-taker lied to us with impunity, and who knows to what end. Such a man cannot force us to submit to his census, no matter how national. The Census-taker, my friends…”
He takes a tragic pause, clutches his fist to his heart—what a theatrical priest we have—and continues:
“The Census-taker, my friends, is none ot
her than the unknown huntsman.”
At that, we erupt into applause, we stamp our feet, we drum on our bellies just for the fun of it, we whistle an airy tune—yes, all this business has ended well, extraordinarily well, at last we have found our unknown huntsman and everything can go back to being simple again! Even Father Wavery, who spends his evenings studying the cold statues in his temple so that one fine Pentecost he can turn rigid in the very same beatitude, looks like he’s on the verge of allowing a single waxy tear to trickle down his hollow cheeks; we bet if we offered him a little glass of the wine he loves so well, his hands would soon cleave apart in a crack of splitting stone, and sure enough, he smiles and says:
“There is no darkness the Lord cannot light with His truth.”
Well said, Father, well said. And he sits back down, his eyes glistening with modesty at what he must consider as proof of the existence of God, in the same way Mrs. Latvia’s misfortunes prove it for her.
“Where is that nasty Census-taker anyway?”
Surprise, surprise. It’s Angelina White who wants to know! There’s a bitter twinge in her voice, we get the feeling she’d have been happy to take the census every day if she could. She’s got a heart as soft as marshmallow, that’s what Mrs. Latvia sometimes says behind her back, it’s true, and—really!—having a crush at her age, we have to say, it’s so pathetic it’s almost vulgar, but now the baker picks right up where she left off:
“She’s got a point. What have you done with that scoundrel? Mayor Gross? Father Wavery? Did you lock him up at the Station?”
The Station? What an idea, we’d rather spend the night in Sybille’s lair than in that stone blockhouse no one ever thought to grace with a single window, as if to drive to depression the poor devils there who’ve sided with Evil, as if it weren’t enough to deprive them of their freedom, but come to think of it if there’s one person who deserves to rot there for a few days it’s certainly that rogue of a Census-taker, yes, perhaps the Station is perfectly appropriate for criminals of his stripe, but we shudder when we recall that the late mayor Morton once talked about locking up Amelia Gross there for the whole pen heist affair, just to “set an example.” How horrendous! Fortunately the baker would have none of it, and the Gross girl was allowed to roam free until recently when—alas!—she took her last breath and was locked away to rot in a poplar box instead. It’s the priest who responds:
“Yes, the Census-taker is at the Station for now. We locked him up there—he fought like a devil, the poor sinner—and we swallowed the key, so to speak. A demon of his ilk deserves a little solitude, Amen.”
We raise our eyebrows. Swallowed the key, that’s going a bit far isn’t it, and what a curious gift to leave to future generations—the skeleton and ghost of a census-taking monster haunting the walls of the Station for ever and ever, Amen! We sound like Father Wavery now—that’s all we needed!—but the more we think of it, the less we want to know; after all, as those more intellectual than us might say, what we don’t know makes us stronger and what doesn’t kill us can’t hurt us.
“Surely you’re not going to let him rot there like a stack of old firewood?”
Angelina’s voice carries a tremolo not unlike Morosity’s when she belts out the hymns at Christmas mass, poor Angelina, she’s been jinxed since birth, always dreaming of being wed while, one after another, her suitors end up in the slammer, behind bars, in the corner, or worse—at the Station. It’s enough to make us cry, but we won’t allow anything to soften us, we won’t allow anything to distract us from our thankless but necessary task, as Leaven points out:
“With all due respect, Miss White, you have consorted with the enemy, and in another age, in another country, and in a completely different situation, you would have had your head shorn. So, spare us your scruples!”
Mrs. Latvia takes out her ridiculous hankie—does she wash the thing every Monday?—and hands it to her friend, who sheds three or four tears into it before tossing a twig into the woodstove, and we all watch it crackle and burn up.
24
We breathe easy, yes we breathe easy this evening in the church basement. We are finally rid of the vermin, thanks to our brilliant Professor. And our days of peace and quiet can return.
“My flock, the terrible Stranger is no longer standing in our way. Let us thank the heavens, yes, and take a moment once again to loathe that Enemy, that Stranger, that pseudo-scientist, and let us pray for the redemption of his soul.”
We clap, we have tears in our eyes. How lucky we are to have such a master, such a guide as the Professor! He rocks back on his heels, visibly pleased, and calls for silence.
“There is one step left, one last step, to ensure we all enjoy eternal peace. To end, once and for all, this damned season, this damned novel.”
We can feel the cramps creeping back into our stomach and cold sweat breaking out in our armpits. We thought this season and this novel were over and done with, but no, there’s one more step, one last step, ahh!
“We must incriminate that Demon once and for all. Brand him forever with a red-hot iron. So that each and every one of us remembers him as the devil who once visited our village and who was vanquished and locked up forever in the Station. He must become the unknown huntsman, beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
Of course, if we could prove beyond a doubt, like they do in court, that this Stranger is in fact the unknown huntsman, then the whole thing would be resolved. But is it really necessary, Professor, can’t we just let popular belief, rumour, and time do their work? Can’t we just get back to our quiet lives?
“We must. So we can find peace. So I can find peace. And I have a secret weapon, oh yes, I do. Come, follow me.”
He gestures to something behind us, our head swivels to understand, to watch the shadow coming down the sacristy staircase and entering the room.
And we understand!
25
Our meeting this week is full of surprises again, just when we thought we were all done with surprises. As we come into the hall and sit down, who should we see there, just to the right of Father Wavery—on whose left sits Mayor Gross—sitting modestly, slightly hunched, wearing a plain cotton dress, but the young schemer Blanche Bedford.
The baker doesn’t waste a second and booms, in a mocking voice:
“Well, well. Look who’s back!”
The mayor—there’s something different about him, but we can’t put our finger on it—is not amused:
“That’s enough, Leaven, that’s right, now you’re going to listen for a change!”
It seems this mayor stutters—or not—when it suits him! But we have to say we prefer this Gross to the other one who can barely string two words together, and now the mayor is clearly in control again:
“Blanche Bedford is back. And she’s brought with her the final proof that will conclude this thing, this season, this novel, once and for all.”
What flair our mayor has!
“Show them, Blanche.”
Mrs. Latvia can hardly contain herself, the poor woman has had to endure the Campbell boys’ nervous breakdowns since Blanche disappeared without a trace, we can tell she’s exhausted, and Blanche can tell too, but young Blanche simply looks up and pulls a slip of paper from her pocket.
“The paper from Lisa Campbell’s salon! I knew it! That little bitch had it the whole time, just to taunt us, just to torment us! Damn her generation! Lord, give your old Latvia strength!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Latvia, spare us your comments if you will.”
Such poise from Roger Gross this evening! What ever happened to our meek and mild mayor with his mumbling, stumbling voice?
The Bedford girl unfolds the piece of paper, glances at the mayor, the priest, her audience, Mrs. Latvia, back at the mayor, and opens her precious little mouth:
James Campbell, Census-taker
Ministry of Census
Government
555-0174
And she scrutinizes the audience, looking as smug as an actress who’s just delivered a diatribe.
“So that’s it, then. James Campbell, brother of Bertrand Campbell, ex-husband of the late Lisa Campbell, is none other than the criminal rotting at the Station as we speak. That explains the murder of Lisa Campbell who, according to Mrs. Latvia’s testimony, was carrying on a risqué relationship with him. That explains everything.”
Mayor Gross enunciates every syllable as he speaks, as if to cut short any discussion, any debate, but he knows Leaven only too well, and the baker won’t be silenced so easily.
“Wait a minute now, where is Albert Miller? What’ve you done with him, Blanche? Jilted is he, the poor boy?”
Blanche glances around as if looking for her mate, as if she’d forgotten him in a corner somewhere, the way you might misplace a handkerchief or a glove.
“Albert died at the front.”
It’s the mayor who’s answered, and we frown. Mrs. Latvia and Angelina White stiffen and cross themselves, and even Blanche has an odd look on her face, but she chimes in:
“There’s a terrible war raging.”
“Really? Where?”
“In the city.”
“How long has it been going on?”
“For months.”
“Why have we never heard about it?”
“But Baker Leaven, we never know anything about anything. We’ve had only one outsider here in the past ten years, and look what happened to him.”
“True, but why would the government conduct a trivial little census in the middle of a war?”
“You really don’t get it, do you? James Campbell did not come here to carry out a census; he’s nothing but a dangerous madman.”
Now it’s the mayor who’s spoken, and we can see he’s getting more worked up than we’ve ever seen him before, waving his arms around, his face the same shade as Mrs. Latvia’s when she throws one of her tragic fits.
The Unknown Huntsman Page 9