“Why did you go back in? And when they were in there, what did you do? You hid, I suppose. And when they left you came out and tried to put out the fire.”
He shook his head slightly.
“You did,” she said. “You did put it out. There was water on the floor, and a mop bucket.”
He did not deny this.
“I shouldn’t have thought books would catch fire easily. Or did they pull out some newspapers, or the catalogue, or the overdue file? They certainly got something burning. All that smoke, it was awful. I was choking as soon as I came in, I don’t know how you breathed at all up there on the main floor. Anyway, you put out the fire, and you had to get out because of the smoke, or you weren’t sure the foe was really out; so you quick picked up some valuable books and headed for the door—”
Again he shook his head. Was he smiling?
“You did! You were crawling towards the stairs, crawling on your knees, trying to carry those books, when I came up. I don’t know if you would have got out or not, but you were trying to.”
He nodded, and tried to whisper something.
“Never mind. Don’t talk. Just tell me, no, don’t tell me, how you can be a Partisan, after that. After giving your life, all but, for a few books!”
He forced the whisper, like a steel brush on brass, that was all the smoke had left of his voice: “Not valuable,” he said.
She had leaned forward to catch his words. She straightened up, smoothed her skirt, and presently spoke with some disdain.
“I don’t know that we are really very well qualified to judge whether our life is or is not valuable.”
But he shook his head again and whispered, voiceless, meaningless, obstinate: “The books.”
“You’re saying that the books aren’t valuable?”
He nodded, his face relaxing, relieved at having explained himself at last, at having got it all straight.
She stared at him, incredulous, angrier than she had been at the radio, and then the anger flipped over like a coin from a thumb, and she laughed. “You’re crazy!” she said, putting her hand on his.
His hand was thickset like the rest of him, firm but uncallused, a desk worker’s hand. It was hot to her touch.
“You ought to be in a hospital,” she said with remorse. “I know you shouldn’t talk, I can’t help talking, but don’t answer. I know you should have gone to the hospital. But how could you get there, no taxis, and God knows what the hospitals are like now. Or who they’re willing to take. If it ever quiets down and the telephone works again I’ll try to call a doctor. If there are any doctors left. If there’s anything left when this is over.”
It was the silence that made her say that. It was a silent day. On the silent days you almost wanted to hear the motorcycles, the machine guns.
His eyes were closed. Yesterday evening, and from time to time all night, he had had spasms of struggling for breath, like asthma or a heart attack, terrifying. He breathed short and hard even now, but however worn out and uncomfortable, he was resting; he must be better. What could a doctor do for smoke inhalation, anyhow? Probably not much. Doctors were not much good for things like lack of breath, or old age, or civil disorders. The librarian was suffering from what his country was dying of, his sickness was his citizenship of this city. Weeks now, the loudspeakers, the machine guns, the explosions, the helicopters, the fires, the silences; the body politic was incurable, its agony went on and on. You went miles for a cabbage, a kilo of meal. Then next day the sweet shop at the corner was open, children buying orange drink. And the next day it was gone, the corner building blown up, burnt out. The carcase politic. Faces of people like façades of buildings downtown, the great hotels, blank and furtive, all blinds down. And last Saturday night they had thrown a bomb into the Phoenix. Thirty dead, the radio had said, and later sixty dead, but it was not the deaths that outraged her. People took their chances. They had gone to see a play in the middle of a civil war, they had taken their chance and lost. There was both gallantry and justice there. But the old Phoenix, the house itself: the stage where she had played how many pert housemaids, younger sisters, confidantes, dowagers, Olga Prozorova, and for the great three weeks Nora; the red curtain, the red plush seats, the dirty chandelier and gilt plaster mouldings, all that fake grandeur, that box of toys, that defenseless and indefensible strutting place for the human soul—to hurt that was contemptible. Better if they threw their damned bombs into churches. There surely the startled soul would be plucked straight up to downy heaven before it noticed that its body had been blown to stewmeat. With God on your side, in God’s house, how could anything go wrong? But there was no protection in some dead playwright and a lot of stagehands and fool actors. Everything could go wrong, and always did. Lights out, and screaming and pushing, trampling, an unspeakable sewer stink, and so much for Molière, or Pirandello, or whoever they’d been playing Saturday night at the Phoenix. God had never been on that side. He’d take the glory, all right, but not the blame. What God was, in fact, was a doctor, a famous surgeon: don’t ask questions, I don’t answer them, pay your fees, I’ll save you if I care to but if I don’t it’s your own fault.
She got up to rearrange the bedside table, reproving herself for vulgarity of thought. She had to be angry at somebody; there was nobody there but God and the librarian, and she did not want to be angry at the librarian. Like the city, he was too sick. And anger would disturb the purity of her strong erotic attraction to him, which had been giving her great pleasure. She had not so enjoyed looking at a man for years; she had thought that joy lost, withered away. Her age took advantage from his illness. In the normal course of things he would not have seen her as a woman but as an old woman, and his blindness would have blinded her: she would not have looked at him. But, having undressed him and looked after his body, she was spared hypocrisy, and could admire that stocky and innocent body with the innocent joy of desire. Of his mind and spirit she knew almost nothing, only that he had courage, which was a good thing. She did not need to know more. Indeed she did not want to. She was sorry he had spoken at all, had said those two stupid, boastful words, “Not valuable,” whether meaning his own life, or the books he had tried to save at the risk of his life. In either case what he had meant was that to a Partisan nothing was valuable but the cause. The existence of a branch librarian, the existence of a few books—trash. Nothing mattered but the future.
But if he was a Partisan, why had he tried to save the books?
Would a Loyalist have stayed alone in that terrible brownish-yellow room of smoke trying to put out the fire, to keep the books from burning?
Of course, she answered herself. According to his opinions, his theories, his beliefs, yes, certainly, of course! Books, statues, buildings, lamp posts bearing lighted lamps not strangled corpses, Molière at eight-thirty, conversation at dinner, schoolgirls in blue with satchels, order, decency, the past that ensures a future, for this the Loyalist stood. Staunchly he stood. But would he also crawl across a floor coughing out his lungs, trying to hang on to a few of the books?—not even valuable books, that’s what the librarian had been trying to say, she understood him now, not even valuable ones; there probably were no valuable books in this branch library. Just books, any books, not because he had opinions, but because he had beliefs, there with his life forfeit, but because he was a librarian. A person who looked after books. The one responsible.
“Is that what you meant?” she asked him, softly, because he had fallen asleep. “Is that why I brought you here?”
The radio hissed, but she did not need applause. His sleep was her audience.
Intracom
CAPTAIN: Good morning, good morning, good morning everybody. How many of us are there, aboard this space ship? Well, let’s see. This is, of course, the Captain speaking. There is the First Mate, about whom there is something, well, different. But not the ears. I’ve seen First Mates with funny ears, but that isn’t this one’s problem. Well, then there is the Chief Engineer,
whose vocabulary is limited to symptoms of valvular malfunction. And the Insane Second Mate, who is locked up in the Crew Recreation Lounge, busy pulling the stuffing out of chairs and sofas, and throwing pool balls at the indirect lighting fixtures. Then there is the Communications Officer, forever wearing headphones and hunched above the hissing radio. The hiss, I understand, is the noise stars make. It is quite a loud noise, out here. Is that all of us? I can’t think of anybody else. It is a small crew, but a select one, being composed entirely of officers. How many does it come to? Six, doesn’t it?”
FIRST MATE: Five.
CAPTAIN: Only five? Are you sure of that, Mr. Balls?
FIRST MATE: Affirmative.
CAPTAIN: Very well, five, then. I know you’re good with mathematics. But I keep having this feeling there’s somebody else.
FIRST MATE: Conceivably, sir, you are thinking of yourself in your capacity as Cook.
CAPTAIN: Don’t call me “sir,” Mr. Balls. All right, then. Here we are, the personnel of the space ship Mary Jane Hewett, Class F, b-1951, Type 36-25-38, Size 13, outward bound from Earth (Terra, 3 Solis) on an exploratory voyage in the direction of the South Orion Arm, with a cargo of breadfruit trees. We have travelled a tremendous distance already, light-years and light-years, though there are times it hardly seems we’re moving at all.
Excuse me. I have to go make lunch.
It isn’t easy to feed the Insane Second Mate, since she plugged the soup chute full of sofa stuffing. We have cut a little hole in the door of the Crew Recreation Lounge, like a mail slot. We wait until the Insane Second Mate is asleep, because when she’s awake, if she hears us at the door, she sticks her hands through and makes obscene gestures with the middle finger of her left hand, or throws pool balls at us. While she is asleep, or sulking, we hastily force her dinner through the slot. After a certain time has passed, if one places one’s ear to the lower half of the door, the Insane Second Mate may be heard munching the food. Uneaten portions are returned through the slot. Lately very little has been returned. Evidently she is eating all the food, or doing something else with it. From time to time I have wondered if there could be someone else in there with her. She seems to eat inordinately, for a female Insane Second Mate of average size.
Chief Engineer, before I go to the galley may I have your daily report for the Ship’s Log.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Aye, weel, compressed hydrogen tank A-30 is leaking. Leakage not contained at present time. Stoppage in forward conduit FC-599 continues, causing buildup of pressure in central coolant storage area CCS-2. Hairline crack in casing of Anti-Matter Isolater is being investigated with intention of presenting report on viability of implementation of repair procedures.
CAPTAIN: What procedure is indicated if repair implementation proves non-feasible?
CHIEF ENGINEER: Automatic Self-Destruct.
CAPTAIN: Good God.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Log entry continued: Vane One has suffered extensive meteor damage and is not currently functioning at full gather-power. Vane Two has been shortened by 81,000 miles to offset the slow spin imparted by imbalance in vane function. Results should be discernible within five to thirteen days (Ship Time). Automatic self-destruct units of ship are no longer functioning, due to suspect short circuit causing automatic self-destruct units to automatically self-destruct.
CAPTAIN: You mean the automatic self-destruct units are all self-destructed?
CHIEF ENGINEER: Aye, that’s about the size of it, Captain.
CAPTAIN: You mean we can’t destruct the ship, if the crack in the Anti-Matter Isolater widens? But if we can’t self-destruct, and the Anti-Matter Isolater blows, we’ll take the fifty nearest stars and all their planets with us—we’ll blow up this whole region of space—if the anti-matter meets an F-2 star, the destruction might become a chain reaction and the entire Galaxy could be destructed!
CHIEF ENGINEER: Weel, we’re working hard on that crack, Captain.
CAPTAIN: We? What do you mean, we? There’s only one of you down there in the Engine Room. Isn’t there?
CHIEF ENGINEER: Aye. But I wish there was a few more.
CAPTAIN : I know you do, at times like this, “Bolts.” But we have the utmost faith in you. You’re a fantastically good Chief Engineer, for a woman.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Thank you, Captain. I’ll be going back to my wee crack now.
CAPTAIN: Very well, and I’m on my way to the galley.
It’s odd. Just now as I glanced over my shoulder I could have sworn I saw somebody going down Corridor G. Now Corridor G leads to a totally disused section of the ship, the Athletic Supporter Storage Room. Who’s got any business there? Mr. Balls? Mr. Balls, are you there?
FIRST MATE : I am in the Computer Center, sir.
CAPTAIN: Will you please not call me “sir,” Mr. Balls. It estranges me. “Sparks,” where are you? “Sparks”? Report to Bridge by intracom at once. “Sparks”?
COMMUNICATIONS OFFICER: Shhh. I’m listening to the radio. Roger. Over and out.
CAPTAIN: All right. And “Bolts” is down with the Anti-Matter Isolater; and I’m here on the Bridge trying to get to the galley. That’s four. Five, five, who’s five? Oh, yes. Insane Second Mate, report current whereabouts to Bridge by intracom at once.
INSANE SECOND MATE: I am clinging by the skin of my teeth and the nails of my toes to a cliff that towers above a raging sea of salt, lashed by great winds into waves and breakers whiter and heavier than ever water was. If I let go I will fall and be broken against the rocks and buried under tons of roaring salt, drowned in the dry sea. If I do not let go I have to keep holding on here, and holding on, and holding on, what for? I am so bored I could scream. I am screaming loudly but no one can hear it over the howl of the wind and the thunder of collapsing salt. I hope the rest of you are enjucting yourselves.
CAPTAIN: What?
INSANE SECOND MATE: Before the ship self-destructs, I hope you are emplucting your time in enjuctable diversions. I think I shall let go now.
CAPTAIN: Wait! Listen, “Bats.” is there anybody else there in the Crew Recreation Lounge with you?
INSANE SECOND MATE: Here I go. Eeeee-yahhhhhh!—Jesus Christ! it’s sugar.
CAPTAIN: Well, that seems to account for all six of us. There couldn’t have been anybody in Corridor G. I just thought there was.
FIRST MATE: Captain, there are only five persons aboard.
CAPTAIN: What makes you so sure of that, Mr. Balls?
FIRST MATE: Mathematics. Simple addition of real numbers. Yourself, 1, myself, 1, “Bolts,” 1, “Sparks,” 1, “Bats,” 1. 1 plus 1 plus 1 plus 1 plus 1 equals 5.
CAPTAIN: That may be. You can prove anything with statistics. But what if there’s one 1 you haven’t counted?
FIRST MATE: Who?
CAPTAIN: That’s what I’m asking you, Mr. Balls.
FIRST MATE: Captain, may I respectfully suggest that it is time for lunch, or dinner, or whatever time it is time for.
CAPTAIN: And what about irrational numbers, Mr. Balls? Eh?
FIRST MATE: Captain, may I respectfully suggest that you leave mathematics to me and the onboard computers.
CAPTAIN: All right, all right. What do you want for lunch?
FIRST MATE: Whatever you please, Captain.
CAPTAIN: I am sick and tired of having to think about it, planning meals all the time. I’m going to open a can of Campbell’s Tomato Rice Soup and if you don’t like it it’s too bad. Every time I’m on the verge of really understanding something, every time an insight is just within outgrope, every time I really realise that I am the Captain of a great ship, I have to turn around and decide whether it’s to be macaroni and cheese or rice pilaf. Why can’t somebody else do the cooking for a while?
FIRST MATE: Nobody else knows how.
CAPTAIN: Any one of you can heat a can of soup as well as I can.
FIRST MATE: Remember when the Second Mate tried?
CAPTAIN: Well, almost any of you. A robot could do it. Why don’t we have galley
robots? Why weren’t we designed properly? The real trouble is that this is a lazy, uncoordinated, incoherent crew. And the center of the trouble, the real source of the disintegration, the stumbling block to all my efforts to run a tight ship, is one person, one single member of the crew, and I think you all know who I’m talking about.
FIRST MATE: Affirmative.
CHIEF ENGINEER: Oh, aye.
INSANE SECOND MATE: Not me. But poor Tom’s a-cold.
CAPTAIN: “Sparks,” are you listening? “Sparks,” come in please. Come in please.
The Compass Rose Page 13