Memoirs Found in a Bathtub

by Stanisław Lem

  He made a bitter, twisted smile.

  “You don’t believe me—all right! At least you’re trying. Listen. First they lined up for the bread, once upon a time. The last seat, toilet or otherwise, was taken. Full house. Afterwards—quit when the money’s still coming in? Then they couldn’t quit. Plant, infiltrate, fake, doctor, drug! Under the rug! Double agents, all right—triples, fine—quadruples, okay—and then quintuples come out of the woodwork! Lord knows how long this has been going on! An epidemic! A plague! Me, I tell you this, an honest, decent spy of the old school—me you can believe!”

  And he beat his breast.

  “Wait a second,” I said, “I’m not sure I understand. Are you trying to say—”

  “I’m not trying to say anything—can’t you understand that? What, I should spill my guts? Are you a phonograph needle to my worn-out record? Must you magnify every sound, split every hair, turn every word upside down, inside out, look in the lining of every syllable, and my snoring, the soap, the razor—must everything be an allusion? All right, do what you will—just keep away from the razor! You have time yet. Things would be too easy if you could have the razor right off. You know, when I first saw you I thought you were sent to take it away.”

  “But I brought it here, from upstairs! It isn’t yours, is it?”

  “Like I say, you have time yet. Above all, keep up your strength. Regular meals, an occasional snack, cookies and milk, some cake… What’s the matter? You think that when I say ‘cake,’ I mean something, like maybe Headquarters or your instructions? Forget it! Cake is cake, period—at least with me. And no one sent me. I slept, I shaved, I missed supper on account of you, and now I’m off. See, I told you everything you wanted to know, and you don’t believe a word of it! Not a word, right? I spill my guts, give you the real dope on all these espials and cabals, and you go and make another puzzle out of it.”

  He got up.

  “So you’re not a spy?”

  “Who says I’m not? Who says I am? Give me something spiable, why don’t you! No, I’ve had it. It’s always the same—and for what? For whom? I’m through, the good guy, the simple soul, the individualist, my song is sung. What do they take me for, an onion? Now even sextuples are turning up. When you get over your suspicions, drop in. Tomorrow, after supper. All right?”

  “All right,” I said.

  “See you. Stiff upper lip. I’m off to find a snack bar.”

  At the door he added over his shoulder:

  “Next on the agenda is the doctor, plates, and then lily white. After the plates, you receive spiritual comfort. Then more monkey business. If I’m not here, wait. I’ll come for sure.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  He shut the door behind him. I heard his footsteps recede, another door open and close, then silence. They had put a lid on me, to bring me to a boil that much faster.

  10

  So… I had considered myself the center of the universe, the bull’s-eye, so to speak, for all the slings and arrows the Building had to offer—and all along I was nothing, just one of a series, another copy, a stereotype, trembling in all the places my predecessors trembled, repeating like a record player exactly the same words, feelings, thoughts. My melodramatic actions, the sudden impulses, false starts, surprises, moments of inspiration, each successive revelation—all of it, chapter and verse, including this present moment, was in the instructions—no longer my instructions, they weren’t made for me… So if this was neither a test nor a Mission, nor chaos—what was left? The bathroom? The corridors? Going from door to door, from door to door…

  Why had he told me so much? He too, of course, was part of the instructions, appearing like a note in a musical score, a note whose turn had come. And he played it well, the old veteran! But why? Where was all this heading?

  I slid down from the tub and lay on the floor for a while, my feet propped up on the toilet. How disgusting it all was! Quadruples, triplets… What did it mean? Maybe nothing, just a diversion. Diversion from what? Apple strudel, window dressing, burning bushes—it made me dizzy. And what about that cauliflower that gave one nightmares? And eating regularly, cookies and milk and cake and onions… Were they all crazy? Were they out to make me crazy too? Then everything would be fine, for if everyone’s crazy, no one’s crazy… But where was it all heading?

  I looked at my watch: stopped. Even it had betrayed me, I tore it off my wrist and tossed it into the toilet. Let the Sanitation Department fish it out and examine it… Where was the razor? He had taken it, robbed me—trying to provoke me to—to do what? Yes, of course! Perfect! Full speed ahead!

  I left the bathroom, whistling. I smiled at all the officers I passed. I took an elevator. No one in the corridor upstairs. So much the better. So much the worse. I entered the office.

  Empty, not a sign of Major Erms. I went to his desk, yanked the drawers out, turned them upside down, shook everything out onto the floor, onto the chair, papers everywhere, a whirling cloud of paper. The door squeaked open and I saw Major Erm’s face, his blue eyes wide with surprise.

  “What—what are you doing?”

  “You bastard!” I roared, lunging at him. We fell and rolled through secret documents—I had him by the throat, I kicked him, I bit him, but it was all over in a moment. People came running up, someone pulled me back by the collar, someone else threw a cup of cold coffee in my face, and Major Erms got up, pale and shaking, and they helped him gather up his papers. I spat out a couple of ribbons I had bitten off his jacket and shrieked while they held me down:

  “Finish me off, villains, dogs! Finish me off! Yes, I plotted, I conspired! I am an agent of a foreign power! I aided, I abetted, I committed treason! Yes! I confess! Shoot me! Torture me! Finish me off!!”

  Several people passed by the open door, but no one looked in, even though I was bellowing at the top of my lungs. Finally, thoroughly hoarse and exhausted, I could only gasp like a fish out of water. Someone in white approached me from the side, rolled up the sleeve of my jacket; I saw a moon face with glasses, felt something stab my arm, then an odd warmth spreading out…

  “Tallyho!” I cried as everything faded away. “Bless you, murderers, bless you!”

  I came to slowly, by degrees. I was enormous. Not that I had become a giant; my body hadn’t grown. But I, the I who was now thinking, was a space equivalent in volume to the space surrounding me, if not larger. I didn’t move a muscle, yet my inner being encompassed the myriad levels of the white labyrinth. Snugly ensconced in the warm depths of myself, between my powerful walls, I considered my recent trials and tribulations with infinite patience and pity.

  Gradually I dwindled, tightened up, somehow returned to my old self. I was lying on a hard uncomfortable bed. I moved my fingers—they stuck together. The coffee thrown at me must have had sugar in it. I lifted my head. It wobbled, as if it hadn’t been properly screwed on. I sat up and leaned against a cold, tiled wall.

  This wasn’t a bathroom. I was on a vinyl couch, fairly high off the ground. The room was long and narrow, had white chairs and a folding screen at one end. I could see the comer of a small desk behind the screen. On a metal cart at my side were medicine bottles, a hypodermic syringe, assorted surgical instruments. Obviously, a doctor’s office. Then I recalled what had just happened. So instead of throwing me in jail, they were treating me? What next?

  Still in a daze, I trial to figure out why there were only ten bottles on the cart when there were supposed to be nineteen. At the same time I knew perfectly well that this didn’t make any sense.

  Someone behind the screen was looking at me; I saw the top of a head and the glint of glasses. It was the doctor who had given me the injection.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, coming out.

  “Fine, thanks.”

  A small man in white, on the plump side, eager to please, pink complexion. There were dark, intelligent eyes behind those thick, horn-rimmed glasses. The nose was a round button, and there was a dimple in the chin. In
the opening of his white coat I could see a green polka dot tie, and when he came nearer, the lapels of a uniform. He pulled up a stool next to my couch, sat down and took my pulse.

  “I’m all right,” I said when he brought out a stethoscope from the pocket of his coat.

  “Of course,” he replied in a smooth and pleasant voice. “Do you remember everything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful! That’s a very good sign. You are going through a most difficult, a most complicated period—adjusting to a new environment, etc. Many things disturb the equilibrium, and then there’s all that secrecy to contend with, how our psyche hates it! We have a stubborn, rebellious nature; the minute it is presented with anything forbidden, all hell breaks loose, you see. A perfectly normal reaction, though—er—not exactly encouraged around here. We can help you.”

  “How?” I asked. I still had on my trousers and shirt. But my jacket was hanging on the wall and someone had taken off my shoes. I felt stupid without them.

  “You’re an intelligent man,” he said with a broad smile, making a dimple in his left cheek. “And intelligence demands a certain skepticism—a normal, healthy skepticism. Now, we’re not omnipotent, Lord knows … if you don’t object, of course, we could sit down and have a little talk. Just between us, you understand. But perhaps you’d like to wash up first? A bath?”

  “That’s a good idea. I’m sticky from that coffee…”

  “Ah, let’s not even mention that—incident. I’ll just say that the Major did ask me to tell you that he fully understands—and there’ll be no trouble on that score, none whatsoever.”

  “What?” I asked dully. He blinked.

  “That little, uh, scene we had… You lost your temper, one might say you even lost your head—there were certain disappointments, I suppose. We needn’t go into it. But the Major asked me to give you a few words of encouragement. He thinks quite highly of you, you know…”

  “You said something about a bath?” I interrupted, beginning to feel not unlike that spy in the bathroom. I got down from the couch. Whatever was in the injection had completely worn off. The doctor directed me through a side door to the bathroom, I hung my clothes up in a little closet, gave myself a good scrubbing, then took a cold shower. Feeling worlds better, I threw on a loose bathrobe which was folded over a chair nearby, went back to the closet and found it empty. Just then, I heard a cautious knock.

  “It’s me,” came the doctor’s voice from behind the door. “Can I come in?”

  I opened the door.

  “My clothes,” I said, confronting him.

  “Oh yes, I forgot to tell you. The nurse took them to sew on a button, or maybe they needed some ironing.”

  “Searching without a warrant?” I asked, unconcerned. He flinched.

  “Still some traces of shock,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll prescribe a tranquilizer for you, yes. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll examine you.”

  I let him test my reflexes and listen to my heart. He nodded vigorously.

  “Wonderful,” he exclaimed. “You’re in splendid shape. Now let’s go to my office. The nurse will bring your clothes presently. This way, please.”

  We went down a narrow hall to a dim room with a green lamp on the desk and massive bookcases filled with volumes bound in leather, the titles all in gold. Near one bookcase stood a round table with a skull in the middle, and two armchairs.

  I took a seat—the books behind the glass seemed to breathe gloom. The doctor hung up his white coat and I saw that he wasn’t in uniform after all, but was wearing an ordinary gray suit. He sat across the table from me and watched me carefully for a considerable time.

  “And now,” he said at last, as if my face had passed inspection, “perhaps we can discuss what prompted that little—that little outburst of yours. In the privacy of my office, of course.” And he indicated the long, dark rows of books with a wave of the arm.

  “Feel free to tell me everything.”

  He waited for me to start. When I didn’t, he said:

  “You don’t trust me. Perfectly natural. I would feel the same in your place, I’m sure. But believe me, you must try to overcome this compulsion to be silent. It’s important that you try. The first step is always the most difficult.”

  “That’s not it,” I said. “The thing is, I don’t know if it’s really worth it… Anyway, you took me by surprise—just a while ago you were saying that you didn’t want to hear about it.”

  “You must forgive me,” he said, showing his dimples. “Before anything else, I am a doctor. In the other room I wasn’t sure you had completely recovered, I didn’t want to excite you by stirring up painful memories. But now that I’ve examined you, I know that I not only can, but that I should—of course, I don’t insist, but if you’re willing to cooperate…”

  “Very well,” I said, “I’ll talk. But it’s a long story.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  What was there to lose? I began at the beginning, summarized my interview with the Commander in Chief, told about the Mission, my instructions, all the complications, told him about the little old man, the officers, the priest, all my suspicions (except those touching Major Erms), also about the spy sleeping in the bathroom and our odd conversation—but I no longer followed what I was saying, having realized that without mention of the fact that I had caught Major Erms copying secret documents, my attack on him appeared insane. So I tried to find some aspects of my conversation with the spy in the bathroom which might justify, at least to some extent, my mad behavior. But my arguments were unconvincing even to myself, and the more I talked, the less I seemed to say, yet I plowed on grimly, getting in deeper and deeper, convinced that I was only providing additional evidence that I was not in full possession of my senses.

  While I talked, the doctor picked up the skull (it served as a paperweight) and put it down in different positions: sometimes it was in profile to me, sometimes it stared at me with its gaping eyes. When I finished, he sat back in his chair, clasped his hands and said in a smooth voice:

  “As far as I can see, your doubts concerning the importance and, for that matter, the very existence of your Mission are generated by an exceptionally high number of apparently accidental meetings with traitors—and in such a short time, too. Correct?”

  “More or less.” I was recovering somewhat from the feeling that I had put myself in his hands. The empty eyes of the skull looked into mine; the smooth bone seemed to glow.

  “Now you say the little old man was a traitor. Your own conclusion?”

  “The captain who shot himself told me.”

  “He told you—then shot himself? Did you see the actual shooting?”

  “Yes, that is… I heard a shot in the next room, then the thud of his falling body, and through a crack in the door I saw his leg, that is, a shoe…”

  “Ah. And before that, the officer who was serving as your guide was arrested. Could you describe that arrest?”

  “Two officers approached us, they took him aside and talked with him. I don’t know what they said, I couldn’t hear. Then the first officer took him away and the second went with me.”

  “Did anyone tell you that this was an arrest?”

  “Well, no…”

  “So you couldn’t really swear to it?”

  “I guess not, but the circumstances … particularly when you consider what happened later…”

  “One thing at a time. You say the captain told you about the little old man, then you heard a shot, saw a shoe, and concluded that the captain himself was a traitor. As far as your guide is concerned, all you really know is that he was called away. Not much to go on, is it? Who’s left? The spy in the bathroom—you found him asleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would he be doing in a bathroom after photographing such vital documents? And taking a nap, too. The door wasn’t locked, was it?”

  “That’s true, it wasn’t.”

  “Are you still convinced th
at these were all traitors?”

  I was silent.

  “There, you see! Jumping to conclusions!”

  “One moment,” I interrupted. “Assuming they weren’t traitors, how do you explain all of this? What was it, a play put on just for my benefit? But why? To what end?”

  He smiled, all dimples, and said:

  “Who knows? Perhaps they were inoculating you against treason by applying it in small doses. For that matter, even a man like Major Erms might do something you’d think suspicious, something a bit unusual—but surely you wouldn’t take him for a traitor? Or would you?”

  He watched me closely. How icily the eyes gleamed in that round and pleasant face…

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  “There remains one more nut for us to crack, the hardest: your instructions. They were in code, naturally. Were you able to take a good look at them? Are you absolutely sure they were a written account of your every movement and thought in the Building?”

  “Well, no…” I replied reluctantly. “There was only time to read a paragraph or two. It had something about my going from office to office and people ignoring me, then about how vast and impersonal the Building was—operating in a random way—I can’t recall the exact words, but I know they were practically taken out of my mouth…”

  “That was all you managed to read?”

  “Yes. Also, from time to time, people I meet make allusions to my experiences in the Building, even my very thoughts. Prandtl, for example. I told you about him.”

  “All he did was give you a sample of code, a demonstration.”

  “It seemed that way at first. But the sample happened to answer the question in my mind.”

  “Are you aware that superstitious people, when they find themselves in a critical period of their lives, often open the Bible at random to get some indication, some sign on which to predicate their future actions?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of that.”

  “You don’t think it could be of real help?”

  “Certainly not, it’s a matter of pure luck which passage you open to.”