GOOD AMERICANS GO TO PARIS WHEN THEY DIE (28 page)

“Whaddideesay?” Max asks Seymour.

“He says things are fucked up here. We need
a lawyer to tell us that?”

Advocate’s voice, at the beginning rusty
like a tool long unused (the Five even wonder if they aren’t his
first audience in decades), gradually recovers professional
eloquence as he examines the causes for the sad administrative
decline.

He incriminates the system of promotion.
Each promotion, he explains to his restless captive audience,
brings with it not only an enlarged sphere of authority but also
more bits of memory of a past existence, thousands of additional
scrambled jigsaw puzzle pieces belonging to a set of a billion
billion pieces of everything ever seen or felt in a previous
lifetime.

“And that reward (some would say curse, but
shh!) is the basis of the temptation, the terrible disruptive
temptation.”

Stern-faced, Advocate lets go of the table
and lifts his hands theatrically as though repelling temptation. He
barely manages to maintain his balance.

“What, you wonder, is the nature of this
temptation? For functionaries of weak character the temptation is
to dwell inwardly, trying to fit the disparate fragments of memory
into coherent scenes of past existence. You will ask: what scenes?
Scenes of joy? I reply: scenes of joy, yes, but principally scenes
of transgression (although it is true that joy and transgression
are not mutually exclusive, far from it). What motivates, you
wonder, the quest for memories of transgression?”

Advocate breaks off dramatically and stares
at the Five who don’t ask or wonder anything at all. They sit
slumped with glazed eyes in their chairs, perfectly indifferent to
the problems of the Administration, waiting for Advocate to focus
on their own problems. But Advocate continues on his single
track.

“Transgression, of course, explains the
presence of the functionaries here. Their quest for memory of that
transgression is a quest for absolution. Absolution and with it the
supreme reward of release from this joyless place into blessed
void. But for absolution there must be contrition.”

Advocate clasps his hands and bows his head.
He tries, unsuccessfully, to force his stiff features into a
contrite expression. Then he looks up with a successful expression
of despair and questions his clients rhetorically.

“How, though, can there be contrition for a
forgotten act? Hence the temptation to piece the bits of memory
together into the configuration of that sin, an operation we call
familiarly, ‘walking the inner corridors’. But – my central point –
this self-centered inward gaze inevitably results in gross neglect
of administrative duties.”

Advocate pauses to clear his throat and blow
his nose, like a trumpet.

“Whaddideesay?” Max asks.

“I wasn’t really listening,” says Helen
apologetically.

“Nothing to do with us,” says Seymour, not
knowing how wrong he is.

Advocate examines his handkerchief, thrusts
it into a pocket and resumes.

“Inward vision blinds one to the external
world. But without outward vision, without constant attention to
humdrum detail, the struggle against attrition and entropy (which
sap the base of all structures in the universe) is impossible. In
theory, single-minded concentration on administrative duty on the
functionaries’ part would ensure the defeat of dust, ensure that no
file would ever be hopelessly misplaced, no corridor below be
allowed to collapse, no gross errors involving the processing of
Arrivals be allowed to occur. Such, alas, is not the case.”

Advocate makes a broad concessive gesture,
again endangering his stability.

“I anticipate your question. Are there no
sanctions, you wonder, for neglect of administrative duties? I
reply: sanctions exist of course. This is a place of sanctions.
Flagrant errors or omissions are sanctioned, severely sanctioned,
by demotion and attendant loss of memory-bits, an excruciatingly
painful suppression like the tearing away of flesh. But … but
…”

Advocate breaks off, shoots fearful gazes to
the left, to the right and above. He leans forward over the table
and whispers: “It is clear that the number of memory bits possessed
and with it the number of combinatory possibilities – and so the
temptation of the inner gaze! – is directly proportional to the
functionary’s rank. But, assert some – how true this is I cannot or
dare not say – here, as in all organizational structures, impunity
is directly proportional to power. And at the higher
decision-making levels (some dare to claim at the very highest
level) omissions and errors, unsanctioned, have dire consequences.
How, I ask you, can these high-placed functionaries possibly make
judicious administrative decisions if they persist in walking the
inner corridors, their vision focused on cryptic images like … like
…”

Advocate stiffens. His eyeballs roll upward
giving him the blank-eyed aspect of a statue. He whispers hoarsely:
“… like … like … an evening cloud shaped like a knife, a
grief-stricken female face, a high gray wall surrounding uniformed
inmates, a lightning-blasted oak, a charging bull, a window open on
a rose garden and the naked diseased woman’s inviting voice behind,
what woman, what woman? and vultures circling down on what dead
prey? and, oh, the children, great-eyed with fear herded into the
cattle cars, was I powerless witness or heartless participant?”

Advocate stands there like a blind seer,
arms outstretched. He goes on and on in a monotonous drone for long
minutes, undistracted by the audible restlessness of his audience,
the creaking chairs and murmured protests.

Finally he breaks off the senseless jumbled
catalogue. Outward sight returns to his blank eyes. He stares in
bewilderment at the Five and the Common Room as if seeing them for
the first time.

He mutters a dismissive: “Yes, yes, I wish
to thank you for your kind attention.”

Seymour and Louis and Margaret protest
violently at this dismissal after nothing, nothing at all.

Advocate blinks heavily, peers at the Five
one by one, then down at the papers on the table.

“
Of course, of course, to be sure, the New
Arrivals. Allow me to welcome you to the
Préfecture de
Police
. I am both happy
and honored …”

“
You already welcomed us to the
Préfecture de
Police
an hour ago,”
says Seymour. “And we’re not New Arrivals, we’re Old
Arrivals.”

“And, my God, getting older and older all
the time,” says Margaret.

“God? Time?” Advocate mutters.

Recognition and memory return. Advocate’s
focus is wholly outward now. He snaps into brisk efficiency and
informs his clients that prior to a private interview with each of
them in order to draw up elements of their defense, he is at their
entire disposal to reply, to the best of his ability, to queries of
collective interest, assuming they have such queries.

Oh they have, they have. The same questions are
often phrased differently by the Five. Advocate sits down and notes
them, in reduced form, in a spidery hand.

What are our chances of being transferred
and when will the decision be reached? (M. Williams, L. Forster, S.
Stein, M. Pilsudski, translated by H. Ricchi.)

This is Hell, isn’t it? (S. Stein).

What did I do to deserve Hell?
(S. Stein, M.
Williams.)

If transferred will we be middle-aged or,
worse, old and perhaps even senile?
(M. Williams, L. Forster, S. Stein.)

If transferred will we meet certain loved
ones we once knew out there? (M. Williams, L. Forster, S. Stein, M.
Pilsudski, translated by H. Ricchi.)

Why do you all wear rubber gloves in our
presence? (S. Stein.)

Why are there no novels here? (H.
Ricchi.)

Advocate places his pen on the table.
Pursing his lips, he stares down at the sheet.

“Allow me, if you will, to dispose of the
more minor of your questions. Regarding books: a library with a
sizable selection of volumes in French and English was once at the
disposal of the Administratively Suspended. The collection has been
inexplicably dispersed, no one knows where. Just as there was once
a cinema, a well-equipped gymnasium, decent hot meals served with
wine. Why these amenities are no longer available is not
clear.”

Advocate now addresses Question Four, no
minor question: their age in the event of transfer.

Margaret interrupts him tearfully. “Who
wants to go out there old?”

“Ah, on any terms, my dear, many people
would.” Advocate brushes dandruff from his shoulder. “Even if
eighty, to be able to sit in sunshine eating plums and watching
breakers and gulls for only a fraction of a heartbeat. Or even
ninety and deaf, toothless and blind and vacuous, to be able to
smell plums and feel the hot sun. One learns painfully to moderate
one’s expectations. But such moderation, it is true, does not
concern you. Your demands have no reason to be moderate.”

Advocate now explains in elaborate
metaphoric terms what they already know and don’t need explaining:
that upon arrival in the Préfecture their stopped clock had been
rewound and the hands set back to an advantageous early time. He
holds up a warning forefinger and informs the Five that they age
here as they had aged out there.

They don’t need to be told that either. But
what follows they hadn’t known, had never dared to imagine.

“But when you are transferred to the outside
world (as I sincerely trust you will, all my efforts are bent to
that end), the biological clock – if I may be allowed to pursue the
metaphor – will be set back to the age conferred upon you when you
arrived here, in accordance with your sojourn date.”

It’s the first bit of good news in decades
for four of the Five. Their joy isn’t dampened by Advocate’s
information that once they are transferred to the world outside the
aging process will go on, ceaselessly. The rewound clock will tick
on and on as before, each tick marking loss of vital stored-up
energy. The hands will chase each other again. One day the spring
will go limp, the ticking will stop and the hands halt, for good
this time.

That doesn’t bother them. They aren’t out
for immortality. Seymour is surprised at Advocate’s clock metaphor
in this place without clocks or sense of time.

“As to Question Two, (will you, in the event
of transfer, meet certain beloved individuals known in the former
existence), I am happily in a position to state unequivocally: yes,
absolutely yes, this meeting is guaranteed, programmed even.”

Oh they feel so much better, nearly all of
them.

Advocate continues. “Question Four: is this
place Hell?”

His shaggy white eyebrows knit with the
intensity of his reflection.

“
Hell: the locus of Divine Punishment for
sins committed in the previous existence. That punishment is part
of the Divine Scheme, how could I, of all people, possibly deny
that blatant fact? But the dull gray
Préfecture
scarcely corresponds, I think, to the classic
image of Inferno. Where is the colorful animation, where is the
warmth generated by eternal flames of lovely red? Or if the flames
of burning brimstone, lovely blue? Where are the notorious female
sinners, their unclad bodies in attractive postures of
torment?”

Advocate shakes his head sadly and begins
assembling his papers. “I believe I have touched upon all of your
questions.”

No, no, the principal one, they protest in
chorus, remains unanswered: what are their chances of being
transferred and when will the decision be reached?

Advocate ponders theatrically and finally
pronounces: “The decision-making process is, as you see, underway.
A favorable ruling is by no means absolutely excluded. That is, for
those Arrivals for whom administrative records exist proving prior
residence in Paris.”

Max intercepts the dubious glance Advocate
shoots his way.

“Whaddideesay?” Max asks Helen. “He said
something about me, didn’t he?”

“No, nothing at all about you, Max. He says
there’s a good chance we’ll all be transferred.”

A very kind and very poor translation,
Seymour thinks.

Advocate beams feebly. “Having answered
all your queries, to your satisfaction, I trust, I shall shortly
proceed to a private interview with …” He shuffles through the
pile, clicking his tongue with impatience, and finally chooses a
sheet. He peers at it and resumes. “Yes, a private interview with,
hem,
Madame
Ricchi
and … er …
Mademoiselle
Williams and … and … ah …
Messrs
. Stein and Forster.”

Seymour wonders what invention Helen will come up
with to explain why Advocate hasn’t bothered placing Max on the
list of Suspended Arrivals to be defended.

He’s on the point of reminding Advocate that
he hadn’t answered his question about the rubber gloves when the
door opens and Sadie, who must have been listening at it, orders
the Five to return to their sleeping quarters and await their turn
to be interviewed.

Chapter 31

Systems Of Defense

Hours later, Sadie yanks open the men’s door
and barks: “Number Three!”

Nobody budges. After all this time they
still don’t remember their single-digit administrative identity. It
must have been easier in Nazi concentration camps, Seymour
reflects, the number tattooed on your forearm for convenient
reference.

“You!” she commands, pointing at Louis
Forster.

Louis sits down opposite Advocate,
rehearsing in his mind his defense for his unforgivable behavior in
Paris back then. He’d been working on it for decades. Once he’s
transferred, he means to say, he’ll make up for everything, delete
all those wrong things done back then, by proposing to Louise over
the bouquet which will be for her and no one else and there won’t
be a hotel room till after the marriage.