“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. When a person yawns, one can look inside, you know. You don’t snore, by any chance?”
“No.”
“Wonderful. You can’t imagine how many of our people have come to a bad end by snoring.”
“What happened to them?” I was reckless enough to ask. But he only smiled and fingered his insignia. “Perhaps you would like to see the displays? They’re right on this level—over there by the columns. Our Department of Collections.”
“Sure,” I replied, “but do we have the time?”
“No problem,” he said, steering me in the right direction. “Anyway, this is not to satisfy an idle curiosity. In our profession the more one knows, the better.”
Blanderdash opened an ordinary white door, behind which was solid steel. He worked a combination lock and the steel slid away, revealing an enormous, windowless but brightly lit hall. The coffered ceiling was supported by pillars; the walls were covered with tapestries and hangings in black, gold and silver. I had never seen anything so magnificent before. Between the columns across the highly polished parquet stood the showcases, cabinets, vitrines on slender metal legs, chests with their lids open. The one nearest me was filled with small items that gleamed like jewels. They were cuff links, and there must have been a million of them. From another chest rose a mound of pearls. Blanderdash led me to the glass cases: on velvet cushions lay artificial ears, noses, bridges, fingernails, warts, eyelashes, boils and humps, some displayed in cross section to show the gears and springs inside. As I stepped back, I stumbled against the chest of pearls and shuddered: they were teeth—snaggleteeth and tiny teeth, buck teeth, teeth with cavities and teeth without, milk teeth, eye teeth, wisdom teeth…
My guide smiled and pointed to the nearest tapestry. I took a closer look: beards, goatees, sideburns, muttonchops, all sewn onto a nylon base in such a fashion that the blond ones represented, against a brunette background, the national seal. In the next room, even more spacious than the first, were more glass cases. These contained artifacts and keepsakes such as cheeses or decks of cards. From the pine ceiling-beams hung artificial limbs, corsets, clothing. There were artificial insects too, crafted with a precision that only a great and wealthy power could have summoned the means to achieve. The insect display alone filled several shelves. Blanderdash did not intrude with explanations, certain that the corpora delicti assembled here would speak for themselves. But now and then, whenever he thought I might overlook some particularly interesting item in the abundance of things to see, he pointed it out discreetly. For example, he directed my attention to a great quantity of poppy seed placed on white silk under a strong magnifying lens. This enabled me to notice that each individual seed had been painstakingly hollowed out. Amazed, I turned to ask him what this meant. But he cut me off with a commiserating smile and a shrug, and to make his meaning clear, silently mouthed the word “classified.” Only when we left did he casually remark, “Interesting trophies, aren’t they?”
The next room was even more magnificent. I looked up and saw an enormous tapestry on the opposite wall, a true masterpiece in auburn and black depicting the birth of a nation. After some hesitation, Blanderdash pointed out one dignitary’s coat in the panorama: the lapels were neatly trimmed black sideburns; I was given to understand they originally belonged to an enemy agent this dignitary had unmasked.
A cold draft from behind the columns suggested a whole suite of rooms beyond. I no longer looked at the exhibits but followed my guide meekly, quite lost in all this splendor, dazzled by the glitter and the spotlights. We went past sections on the opening of safes, the tempting of agents, the drilling through of walls and mountains, the drying up of seas; I gaped at many-storied machines, machines to copy mobilization plans at any distance, machines to change night into artificial day and vice versa. We crossed a large hall under an immense crystal dome used to simulate sunspots and falsify planetary orbits; replicas of fake constellations and imitation galaxies gleamed on plaques of precious stone. Behind the walls powerful vacuum pumps worked to maintain the low density of air and high level of radiation required to keep the counterfeit atoms and electrons functioning smoothly. My head was spinning—there was too much to take in. Blanderdash noticed my condition and asked me to follow him to the exit.
Earlier, halfway through the Department of Collections, I had prepared some compliments to deliver after seeing the entire exhibit. But now I couldn’t utter a single word. Blanderdash understood my silence and said nothing. At the elevator two officers approached us, saluted, begged my pardon, and took Blanderdash aside. Blanderdash seemed surprised—he said something, eyebrows raised, but they answered with negative gestures and pointed in my direction. With this, the brief exchange ended. Blanderdash left with the older officer, and the younger approached and explained with an ingratiating smile that he was to accompany me to Department N.
I saw no reason to protest. But as we stepped back into the elevator, I began to question him about my former guide.
“Did you say something?” the officer asked, lowering his ear to my mouth and at the same time pressing his hand to his chest, as if in pain.
“Yes, about Blanderdash. Was he called away on duty? I know I shouldn’t ask—”
“Not at all, not at all,” the officer said hastily. A slow, peculiar smile widened his thin lips. “Could you say that again?” he asked, suddenly pensive.
“Say what?”
“The name.”
“Blanderdash? But … that is his name, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I’m sure it is, I’m sure it is.” But his smile grew more pensive.
“Blanderdash,” he muttered as the elevator came to a stop, “Blanderdash … of course…”
I wondered what the “of course” was supposed to mean, whether or not it was for my benefit—but just then the elevator opened and we were walking quickly down a corridor toward one of those white doors. He ushered me into a long, narrow room without windows and snapped the door shut behind me. There were four desks under low lamps and an officer at each, laboring over stacks of paper and in shirtsleeves because of the heat. One of them sat up and fixed his dark eyes on me.
“State your business.”
I subdued my impatience.
“Special Mission by order of General Kashenblade.”
If I thought the other officers would look up at these words, I was greatly mistaken.
“Your name?” I was asked in the same brisk manner. This officer had the muscular hands of an athlete, tanned, with a small tattoo in code.
I gave my name. He pressed the keys of a machine on his desk.
“The nature of the Mission?”
“I’m to be briefed on that here.”
“Oh?” he said. He took his jacket off the chair, put it on, buttoned it, adjusted the epaulets and headed for a side door.
“Follow me.”
I followed him, looking around and realizing for the first time that the officer who had brought me here never entered, but remained in the hall.
My new guide turned a desk lamp on and introduced himself: “Seconddecoder Dasherblar. Have a seat.”
He pressed a buzzer. A young secretary brought two cups of coffee. Dasherblar sat opposite me and sipped Ms coffee without a word.
“You’re to be briefed on the goal of your Mission?” he said at last.
“Yes.”
“H’m. Your Mission. It’s difficult, complicated … unusual too—I’m sorry, your name?”
“Still the same,” I replied with a faint smile.
The officer smiled in return. He had beautiful teeth; his whole face radiated sincerity and openness in that moment.
“Cigarette?”
“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Good, very good. It’s a bad habit, a very bad habit… Well, then… Excuse me a moment.”
He got up, switched on the overhead lights, went to a huge metal safe and turned seven combinatio
n dials in succession. The massive steel plate slid noiselessly aside, and he began to look through a file of folders within.
“Now, your instructions,” he said. But just then a buzzer sounded. He turned and looked at me. “Must be important. Could you wait? It’ll only take a minute.”
Dasherblar went out, shutting the door quietly, leaving me alone with the open safe.
Was this a test? How could they be so obvious about it, so transparent? I was annoyed. For a while I didn’t budge; then I happened to turn my head toward the safe. Immediately I looked away—but there was a mirror, and it showed all the contents of the safe, all the secret documents. I thought of counting the wooden panels in the parquet floor. But the floor here was linoleum. I inspected my knuckles. I was getting angry. Why shouldn’t I look where I pleased? So I looked: the folders were black, green, pink, a few were yellow and had saucer-like seals hanging from strings. One folder in particular, the one on top, was dog-eared. That was probably it. Anyway, the Chief of Staff himself gave me the Mission, if there was any trouble I could always mention his name—but wait, what was I thinking of?!
I looked at my watch: ten minutes had passed. Complete silence. My chair became more uncomfortable with each passing minute. I crossed my legs—that was worse. I got up, straightened the crease in my trousers, sat down again. Even the desk on which I rested my elbow irritated me. I stretched. That took a minute. My stomach began to growl. I drank the rest of my coffee and contemplated the sugar at the bottom of the cup. I no longer dared even look at the open safe. Another glance at my watch: an hour had gone by.
By the second hour I gave up all hope that the officer would return. Something must have happened. But what? Was he suddenly recalled, like Blanderdash? Or was it Dasherbland? No, Dashenblar. Dashenblade? For the life of me I couldn’t remember—my stomach growled too much. I got up and paced the floor. Almost three hours now, alone with an open safe full of secret documents—heads would roll, including my own! Oh, he fixed me, all right, that … whatever his name was! Suppose someone asked me who I was waiting for? I decided to leave. But which way? The way I came in? They would question me, and my story wouldn’t hold up—I could feel that. The judges would smile. “You mean to tell us that an officer whose name you can’t even remember left you alone with an open safe? Come now, let’s think up something a little more original!” It was hot, sweat streamed down my neck and back. My throat was dry. I tried to close the safe. The bolts wouldn’t lock. No matter how much I turned the dials, the door stubbornly sprang back. It refused to stay shut. Then there were footsteps in the hall. I jumped back, caught my sleeve on the file and the whole stack of folders tumbled out onto the floor. The doorknob moved—I lost my head—I crawled under the desk. All I could see of the man who entered were black, pointed shoes. For a moment he stood still. Then he quietly closed the door and tiptoed over to the safe, out of my field of vision. I heard the rustle of paper and then another sound, a faint clicking, like a distant bell. Of course! He was photographing the secret documents! That meant this wasn’t the other officer, but…
I crept out from under the desk and crawled towards the door. Then, as I reached it, I sprang up and leaped out into the hall. In the split second it took me to slam the door, I caught a glimpse of a pale, horrified face and a camera falling from trembling hands—then I was far away. I walked straight ahead, keeping an even step, passed various bends and curves in the hall, rows of white doors through which I could hear the muffled noise of office work and a faint bell-like tinkling, a sound that was no longer a mystery to me.
Now what? Report the whole incident? But obviously, that man would no longer be there. All that would remain was an open safe, papers strewn about the room. Suddenly I froze—I had left my name in the office there. They knew me, they were searching for me. The whole Building must have been alerted by now; all staircases, exits, elevators were being watched…
I looked around. The corridors were filled with the usual activity. Several officers were carrying folders, folders as like the ones in the safe as peas in a pod. A janitor went by with a steaming percolator. An elevator opened right in front of me and two adjutants stepped out. They didn’t even see me. Why wasn’t anything happening? Why wasn’t I being hunted down? Could it be that … that all this … was only a test?
I made a quick decision. The nearest door read: 76/941. No, I didn’t like it, I moved on … 76/950 suited me. Knock? What for?
As I entered, two secretaries were stirring their coffee, and a third arranged sandwiches on a plate. They ignored me. I passed them and tried another door, the next room. I walked in.
“So you finally got here! Come in, come in, make yourself comfortable.”
A tiny old man in gold spectacles smiled at me from behind the desk. His hair was white as milk, and so sparse that pink skin innocently peeked out here and there. The eyes were like small nuts, the smile was cordial, the gestures full of welcome. I sank into a soft armchair.
“General Kashenblade—” I began. But he didn’t let me finish.
“Of course, of course … will you allow me?”
His palsied fingers pressed a few buttons. Then he rose with great ceremony, a grave smile on his face. The lower lid of his left eye had a slight twitch.
“Undereavesdropper Blassenkash. Permit me to shake your hand.”
“You know me?” I asked.
“And how could I not know you?”
“Oh—really?” I stammered, completely thrown off balance. “Then—then perhaps you have my instructions?”
“Why certainly! But there is no hurry, no hurry… So many years of isolation … the zodiac … how the thought saddens my heart! At such great distances, you know … a man finds it hard to believe, to reconcile himself to the fact, don’t you think? I’m an old man, I talk too much… You know, I never flew, not once… Well, that’s our work … always behind a desk … sleevelets, you know, to protect the cuffs—I wore out eighteen pair.” He shook his head. “So you see, that’s how it is … an old man rambles on…”
He conducted me to an enormous room, all in green and large enough to be a banquet hall. The floor glistened like a lake; on the far side stood a green table and chairs. Our footsteps echoed as if we were in a cathedral. The old man tottered along at my side, smiling, adjusting the spectacles that kept slipping down his nose. At the table he pulled out a chair for me, beautifully upholstered and with an elegant crest on the back. He sat in another, stirred his coffee with a withered hand, took a sip and whispered, “Cold.” I waited. He leaned over confidentially.
“Surprised?”
“I—well, not really, no.”
“Eh, you can tell me, I’m an old man. But I don’t insist… I don’t insist… That would be, on my part, of course—but then you see, the utter loneliness, and the gates of mystery opening, inviting, the dark abyss … temptation—ah, it’s only human! Understandable! And what is curiosity? The first reflex of a newborn baby, the most natural of impulses, the primal wish to find the Cause, the Cause of the Effect, the Effect that in turn causes Action, and so a continuity is established … the chains that bind us … and it all began so innocently!”
“Excuse me,” I asked, confused, “what are you getting at?”
“Just this!” he shouted in a thin, piping voice. “Just this!” He leaned closer, the gold frames of his spectacles gleaming. “Here we have the Cause—there the Effect! What am I getting at, you ask? The mind cannot leave such questions unanswered, it fills in the gaps, takes a little here, adds a little there…”
“Look,” I said, “I really don’t understand what all this—”
“In a minute, in a minute, young man! Not all is darkness! I shall explain the best I can… Forgive a poor old man who does his best… What did you want to know?”
“My instructions.”
“Your—what?” He was clearly surprised.
I said nothing. He closed his eyes, his wrinkled lips moved as if he were counting: “
…sixteen, take away one, carry the six…”
He grinned.
“Perfect, perfect. Your instructions, your papers, your documents, your blueprints … war plans, strategic calculations, everything secret, top secret… Oh, what the enemy wouldn’t give! Despicable, conniving, wanting to take over! If only for one night—one hour!” The old man almost sang the words. “And so he sends out his agents, well-briefed, well-schooled, well-disguised, and they sneak in, destroy, steal, copy—and their name is Legion!” he cried in a quavering voice, clutching his spectacles with both hands. “And what can we do?… In a hundred, in a thousand cases we unmask the conspiracy, cut off the evil hand, extract the deadly poison… But the attempts are renewed, two arms grow where one was severed … and the end result is the same, inevitable. What one can hide, another can find. The natural course of events, young man…”
He ran out of breath and gave a piteous smile. I waited. “But just imagine, what if there were more than one plan? Not two, not four—a thousand! Ten thousand! A million! Could they steal that? Yes, they could, but then the first plan would contradict the seventh, the seventh would contradict the nine hundred and eighty-first, and the nine hundred and eighty-first would contradict all the others. Each one says something else, no two are alike—which is the right one, the real one, the one and only one?”
“Clever!” I said.
“Yes!!” His cry of triumph ended in a fit of coughing, a fit so violent that his spectacles flew off. He caught them in midair. I could have sworn a piece of the nose had also come off—no, it must have been my imagination. The poor old man was blue in the face, his wrinkled lips trembled.
“Now … now imagine thousands of safes, thousands of original documents … everywhere, everywhere, on every level of the Building, all under lock and key, each one an original, each one entirely unique—millions and millions of them, and each one different!”
“Wait a minute!” I said. “Are you trying to tell me that—instead of only one operational plan, there are—”
Memoirs Found in a Bathtub Page 3