by The Prisoner
A sparrow hopped from the flagstones up to the rough ledge of the escarpment, paused to estimate the drop, and flung itself over the edge. A moment later it was back, as though, even for sparrows, there were no passage down to that empty beach.
He watched the sea with the patience of a carved face staring out from a sandstone cliff. It was not that he lacked a plan of action. He had known from the moment of waking that he ought to depart this Village by any means available. If he lingered, it was a sign only that he did not yet doubt that means of some sort were available. He would leave whenever he determined to leave, but mean-while each new increment of fact made him hungrier for the synthesis that would make of the scattered pieces a coherent picture. He had every reason to expect to dislike that picture, but he did want tosee it.
That he was himself intended to form an element of that picture he could no more doubt than that the clothes he wore–the slacks, the turtleneck, the jacket fraying at its cuffs–had been tailored for just his frame and no other.
But when, exactly, had they (omitting the question of who “they” were) recruitedhim in their conspiracy against himself? Had he already been, in a sense, cooperating with them at the moment he had chosen to lease just that particular converted gatehouse in Pembroke? It was not a facsimile–he had assured himself of that: it tallied brick for brick and slate for slate with the photographs. As it was simpler to suppose that he had beenled somehow to elect this choice than that the whole elaborate absurdity of the Village had been constructed suddenly about some building he had simply chanced to like, it followed that he had been tampered with, like a clock that has been set back to provide the murderer with a false alibi.
But if his choice had been less free than it had seemed,how had it been coerced? A question that was posed, more subtly, by the presence of the furniture, furniture that he had only, and in the idlest manner possible,wished for.
And what (this question, which concluded the series, had occurred to him within moments of entering the house) were they expecting of him now? Would not the first, the most natural reaction have been to run away? But he was not—and they must know this–likely to react with such Pavlovian simplicity.
And so, while he weighed this imponderable against that and pursued each question till it vanished into paradox, he had temporised. He had unpacked his suitcases and disposed their effects into closets and drawers, convinced, as he did so, that whatever they were expecting from him it would not be that. He had inspected the kitchen (the icebox was well stocked, and he helped himself to a lager and some cheddar cheese) and then the other rooms of the ground floor. He determined that there was no staircase leading to the floor above, either within or without, though there was space between his ceiling and the eaves for a suite of rooms not much smaller than his own. He attempted to enter the upper floor through the open dormer window and discovered, without surprise, a second wall, just behind the window, of solid iron-plate. He dug out from his watch pocket the house-key Mr Chandler had handed him in ratification of the lease; there was no lock on any door to which this, or any, key might be fitted. He looked for a telephone and found none. He showered and changed into fresh clothes. He made himself at home.
It was not yet noon when he left the house, returning the way he’d come, past the retired police station, past the steps of the church, from which vantage he had seen the elephantine umbrellas of the terrace restaurant. There, though he were visible to them,they would become much less invisible to him. He could not imagine grounds for any greater uncertainty than these on which he stood, in which he sank, and so, on the theory that he could only get out of their hands by playing into them, he let himself be led to the reserved table.
As soon as the man with goitres left her, the tweedy woman in the Tyrolean hat gestured more emphatically for his attention. She was fiftyish, tailored, and stout in an agreeable, oaken way. Her hair was shingled and her face so carefully made up as to seem almost her own. Having caught his eye, she gave him a long, apparently significant, yet incomprehensible look. She rooted in the bottom of a swollen canvas satchel, not quite a purse and not quite a shopping bag, and with the stub of pencil she exhumed she began scribbling on a paper napkin. She had finished before the goitres came back.
Humoresquefell dying to the flagstones, and the elderly violinist bowed low in acknowledgment of his defeat. Raindrops of applause spattered the terrace. The tweedy woman lifted her pigskin fingers to pantomime her mildest approval, and the breeze whisked up the paper napkin thereby released and harried it from table to table until it lodged beside the metal leg of that adjoining his.
The clarinet hobbled into theSwedish Rhapsody . He stooped forward to retrieve the napkin, but the man with goitres had preceded him by an instant: “Allowme , please.” He put the napkin in his pocket.
“That was very thoughtful of the gentleman,” said the tweedy woman, who had followed the goitres to his table.
“And very careless of you, my dear. You must excuse my wife.” “It was no inconvenience.”
The goitres quivered.
“None at all.”
“You see, it was a sort of … sketch … a map I drew in order to explain to my husband—” A pigskin glove caught hold of the man’s arm, so that there should be no doubt who was meant: this was her husband,this . “—just how … the Prater is laid out. Have you been to the Prater, may I ask?” “Yes, though not recently.”
“Didn’t I tell you, my dear, that he looked like a man who has traveled? I have always admired travelers. Travel is a kind of passion with me, but, alas …” “Alas,” her husband continued for her, “my wife’s health does not permit her to travel.” She nodded. “My health does not permit me to travel.”
They glared at one another, each stonily determined not to be the first to depart.
“Won’t you share my table?” he suggested. “I’ll have the waitress bring more coffee.” The woman thumped into a chair. “Thank you. We always enjoy—” “My wife,” the goitres announced, livid with courtesy, “does not—” “—seeing a strange face.Don’t we?”
“—drinkcoffee. The doctor forbids it.”
She stared up at him. “So we must ask him to be kind enough to order lemonade for me!” He seated himself, with ill grace, on the edge of the metal chair, which he did not trouble to draw toward the table.
“Perhaps now you can tell us,” she said, rising to the alto register, “something about Vienna. Do you love the Opera?”
“I would have thought, actually, that you could tell me much more about Vienna than I could tell you.” Her laughter, mirthless and operatic, disrupted the gambols of the breathless clarinet. “Would you listen to him, my dear! He thinks that I … thatI …” “My wife,” the goiters explained sullenly, “has never left this Village. Due to her unfortunate health.” “But surely before she came here …?”
The clarinet resumed its rhapsody. The woman placed an expressive glove upon her tweed bosom. “I wasborn in this Village. Alas.” “Really.”
“Do you find that surprising?”
“Yes, in one who has such a passion for traveling. Or unfortunate, to say the least.” “Passions are stronger for being unrequited,” the goitres remarked, with evident satisfaction. He even edged his chair some inches nearer.
She leaned forward intently until the feather in her cap was brushing his chin. “Have you been, as well, to Italy?” The goiters stiffened. “Really, my dear!”
“If my questions offend him, he needn’t answer, you know.” “What offense is there in asking that? Yes, I’ve seen quite a lot of Italy.” “Venice,” she muttered balefully. “Florence. Rome.”
“And to a number of the smaller towns. I’m very fond of Bergamo.” “Bergamo! Where they make those wonderful violins?”
“You’re thinking of Cremona, my dear.”
“Cremona, of course. We’ll he’s probably been there too. I read about Cremona inThe National Geographic . Do you know that magazine? It’s been the chi
ef comfort of my life, excepting, needless to say, my husband. In fact, I am a Member of the Society!” “Youused to be,” her husband amended.
“I used to be, yes.”
“I’m afraid the waitress has gone into hiding,” the goitres said, rising to his feet. “I shall have to go and seek her out.” When he was out of earshot, the tweedy woman caught hold of his hand. Despite her agitation, her grip seemed weak, almost languid. “You heard all of that!” “Yes, but I’m afraid I understood very little.”
“Isn’t it clear? Isn’t it obvious?I am a prisoner! They never let me out of their sight.” “Then what your husband said about your health …”
“Oh, him! He’s one of them, you know. He helps them every way he can. Not that it makes a speck of difference tothem ! That’s why I tried to give you that message–to warn you!” “I’m afraid I still don’t—”
“Oh good heavens, man–don’t you see? It’s staring you in the face. Ifyou don’t see it, then you’re the only one here who doesn’t.” “That I’m a prisoner, too, you mean?”
“Of course.”
He shook his head.
She backed away. “Then … you are one of them!”
“I am neither.”
She stood up, clutching her canvas bag to her stomach. “My husband is waiting for me. We’re expected somewhere else. I’m sorry to havedisturbed you.” “You needn’t apologize. On the contrary, I owe you my thanks for your confidence. And for trying to help.” Her lips wavered between scorn and commiseration. Her eyes tried to meet his, but always it was the man with goitres fidgeting on the other side of the terrace who commanded her attention.
“So that’s what it was I was trying to do, eh?”
“Weren’t you? It’s what you said.”
Commiseration won out. “There you have it! That’s just the special horror of this place–that you nevercan decide, when someone offers to help, what it is they have in mind. I would love to stay and talk, dear boy, but look at my husband–he’s getting ready to murder me.” She patted his hand.“Wiederseh’n.”
“Goodbye.”
“Hello?” He jiggled the hook. “Hello?”
Silence displaced the vague static; dead silence.
“This is the operator. Can I help you?”
“The number I’ve been trying to reach in London–it rang twice and there seemed to be an answer. And then the line went dead.” “Would you like me to try that number again?”
“If you would. COVentry-6121.”
The operator performed veiled mysteries at her switch-board, and once again the receiver echoed a hopeful Bizz, Zim; a second; a third, still hopefully, and then: “Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“Hello, Liora?”
“This is Better Books. May I help you?”
“Is this COVentry-6121?”
A pause. “Well, almost. It’s COVent Garden-6121. Same letters. Did you want Better Books?” “No, but perhaps youcan help me. I’m outside London, and I’ve had considerable difficulty getting through to that number. I know it exists. I reached someone there only yesterday. Do you have a London Directory on hand?” “Somewhere.”
“Would you look at the front, where the exchanges are listed, and find COVentry? Perhaps it’s not among the central London exchanges.” “Is this some kind of a joke? Who is this?”
“Believe me, I’m perfectly serious. I wouldn’t put you to the trouble if I could receive any kind of cooperation from the operators here.” “Well, just a second.”
In fact, a minute forty-five seconds.
“I find no COVentry exchange. Just COVent Garden. It makes sense, doesn’t it? They wouldn’t have two exchanges with the same letters?” “You looke down both lists? Central and Suburban?”
“Yes of course. Say, is this Lee Harwood?”
“No, I don’t think so. Well, thank you. I’m sorry to put you to any trouble.” Better Books made a doubtful sound and hung up.
He stared for a while, with the receiver still in his hand, at the telephone dial. He replaced the receiver on its hook and stepped out of the booth.
He found himself looking directly into the kitchen that served the terrace restaurant. There, sitting on the chopping block beside a monumental double-sink, was the blond waitress who had served him on the terrace. She was bent double, her knees pulled up to hide her face. The nylon uniform was bunched into her lap, exposing the sallow flesh of her thighs. Her sobbing followed the slow tiddle-tiddle-thump of the distant orchestra.
He stepped across the threshold on to slippery, garbage-strewn concrete. “What is it?” he asked quietly.
Fear glistened in the smudged eyes. Her mouth gaped, and clenched. Hands tugged the nylon down to her knees.
“Is there some way I can help?”
A small noise rose from her chest, strangled in her convulsing throat, as though at some far distance her twin had screamed and her own body had taken up, this faintly, the resonance.
“Go away,” she whispered. “Leave me! Oh, leave me, leave this town. Why did you—Oh, stoplooking at me, for God’s sake, stop!”
Chapter Five
Something White
The old woman standing by the greeting card rack satisfied, better than anyone he had seen yet, his ideal conception of what a resident of this village ought to look like. The wispy white hair caught up in a bun, the silverpoint wrinkles, the knobby, venerable hands, the stooped shoulders and fallen bosom, the crepe falling in black folds to her ankles, allowing just a glimpse of what might even be button shoes: she was in herself a more perfect greeting card than any of those that, with many a low chuckle and many a nod and a smile, she read aloud to herself in a dry, slow, delighted drone.
The clerk, a middle-aged gentleman suitably dressed for a dinner party in Surbiton, appeared from beneath the counter. He held a feather duster rigidly in one hand, an allegory of his trade. “Can I—” His courtesy exploded into coughing; he covered his mouth discreetly with the feather duster, sneezed, sniffed.
“I’d like a newspaper,” he said. “Any newspaper for today.”
The clerk blinked back tears. “I’m so sorry.” He touched the knot in his tie, the handkerchief in his breast pocket, trying, by as much as it lay inhis power, to make this a better world. “You see, we don’t …” He laughed self-deprecatingly. “You understand, surely, that it isn’t me …” “You’re trying to tell me that you don’t handle newspapers.” The clerk sighed. “Just so–we don’t handle them.”
“I wanted something to read on the train.”
“On the …? Yes, well! That’s … There’s …” He stabbed the air with the duster. “… lots of books. Do you like to read … books?” “I’d prefer a magazine.”
“Oh yes, magazines, those, yes. We keep the magazines over in that corner:Country Life . AndHair-Do , but no, you wouldn’t …Car and Driver ?Analog ? Or that one there, on the top, with the greenish cover and that lovely what is it, some kind of, oh, that’s for children, isn’t it?Muscular Development , mm? If you could give me … some idea?” “I’d like aNew Statesman .”
“No, I don’t think … We don’t receive muchdemand , you see, for—” “The Spectator?Newsweek ?”
“Not that sort of thing, really. That’s all, how would you say, politics, isn’t it? They say there’s two things you should never discuss—politics and religion.” “Then perhaps you could tell me, at least, when the train departs?” “Which train?”
“Any at all. Preferably one this afternoon. I’ve been to the station twice today. The ticket window is always closed, and no schedules are posted.” “Yes. Well. I think they’re on thesummer schedule now. But I’m not at all sure. If you asked at the station …” “I’ve just come from the station. There was no one there.”
“Did you look around? They might have been somewhere else, you know, doing something.” “Where do you suggest I look?”
“Oh … Oh, that’s difficult. I’m not really qualified, am I? I mean, this is just abook st
ore. People don’t buy their train tickets at book stores, now do they? So unless there’s something that …? You can see for yourself that thereare other customers.” They both looked at the other customer, who glanced sideways at them, smiling, and jiggled an embossed and glittering birthday card, enticing them to share its message with her.
“Thank you for your help.”
“Not at all. Think nothing of it. I try to do what I …” And, his eyes seemed to express, if that wasn’t very much, it wasn’this fault.
The sweeper, a thick suet pudding of a fellow, tackled his job with great zeal, conscientiously oblivious to the fact that his broom, this third time around, raised no dust, none, from the floorboards. It was his job to sweep, and so he swept on. Perhaps he was motivated less by a conception of duty than by an admiration for the tools of his craft. It was a wide and quite handsome broom, in perfect condition, the bristles still fresh, soft, and supple. No one could ask for a better broom than this. His uniform was no less handsome, of heavy black twill on which had been lavished all manner of pleats, pockets, buckles, zippers, snaps, and, on the back, in chartreuse script, the insigniaDepartment of Sanitation . He was equipped, in addition, with a fine leather harness (black) that suggested immense utility, though, unless he were to be harnessed to a plow, it was hard to imagine any real use for it.
The broom bumped his shoe. The sweeper, encountering this unprecedented obstruction, stopped. The sweeper, temporarily deactivated, considered this obstruction and how best to deal with it.
The sweeper spoke. He said: “Hey! You. What are you doing here?” “I’m waiting for a train.”
“Huh? What train?”
“This is a railway waiting room. Outside there are tracks for trains. I arrived here this morning by train, and I’m waiting now for another in order to leave.” “Uh. But. It’s closed.”