Memoirs Found In a Bathtub (24 page)

So the priest did betray me, as I expected—that required some thought—but—but wasn’t this the bottom level?

Somewhere—nearby—was the legendary Gate—an exit from the Building.

Everything was different here, very different. I wasn’t walking down a corridor now but through a high and spacious hall—columns on every side, footsteps in the distance—receding—a crowd would have been more comfortable—I felt terribly conspicuous, particularly since I intended to escape. Escape was the only thing left. Why hadn’t I escaped before? Escaped instead of struggling with the Mission, the instructions—the false instructions—and the false conspiracy which turned out to be genuinely false. Why? Fear? I did fear the guards—they might question me, demand to see my pass—but I hadn’t even considered the possibility of escape. Why? Because I had nowhere to go, nothing to return to? Because the Building could reach me anywhere? Or was it because, in spite of all the torment I’d endured—against, entirely against, my better knowledge—I still held on to my faith—like a last hope, a hope against hope—in that accursed, that thrice accursed Mission of mine??

There was the Gate up ahead. Open and—God in heaven!—unguarded! Between two towering pillars at the end of a mighty hall—the nave of a great cathedral—dead silence, not even an who—and then I saw him.

This was the second guard I’d seen in the Building. Like the first, the one who guarded a death, he was stiff and straight, had white gloves and a gun, denying his own existence with that lifeless stare—not a person, but an object of the Building.

The Gate was ajar, streaming white light—if I ran for it, would he shoot? Let him shoot! No more deliberations, no more fears and hopes—both deceiving—and no more honor or dishonor—loyalty, treachery—no more!!

I walked up to the guard. He looked through me—as if I weren’t there—and now the door—and the sunlight!

Six steps to the Gate. I stopped.

The spy in the bathroom was waiting for me. I promised him I’d come. Of course, he was as much a Judas as the rest, he made no secret of it. Yet how can one betray a traitor?

He had warned me about the doctor, the plate, the girl—he
knew
. In that case, he knew I would escape, that I would never be coming back. Then how could he ask me to come back, make me promise to come back? How could he count on it? What did he know?

I had to take care of this unfinished business first. Then my escape would be more than an escape—it would be a challenge, a challenge to the Building itself, for though I could be as deceitful and as false as It, instead I would be forgiving, virtuous, magnanimous, beneficent…

I turned around, passed the rigid guard again, went back through the hall to the elevator—this one was a luxury model, all in red—the mechanism hummed sweetly as I pushed the button and we lifted up, contacts clicking, and sailed into the many-leveled space of the Building.

The corridor, an old friend, white and shining with its long rows of doors, led me past officers with briefcases, officers without briefcases, gray officers, thin officers, and that last officer just before the bathroom, fat and jolly—panting beneath his large stack of papers as he hurried by—

I shut the door behind me. The place seemed empty—except for a steady tapping, persistent and distinct, and disturbing in the silence. A faucet dripping.

I sighed, took a few steps in, was about to call out for him—and froze.

He was lying in the tub, the tub was full, he was naked and his throat was slit, like a pig. The hair was plastered down like a helmet, silver on the sides, the head was turned away and faced the wall, and the face was underwater, A fist still gripped the razor. Blood trickled from that hideous wound and mixed with the water in dark whorls and spirals.

I came closer. The face was still hidden from view, as if he had shied away at the last moment, or didn’t want to look at the razor. Or was hiding from the moment when I would find him.

He had to do it, of course. This was absolutely the only way to convince me that he hadn’t lied. Words, entreaties, threats wouldn’t have helped. He was presenting me with the one irrefutable proof.

I looked around. The clothes lay under the sink, carefully folded. Apparently he hadn’t wished to bloody them. Had he left some sign, some message, a last will and testament, or a warning—anything written—I would have my doubts again. This he knew, and so left only a naked body, as if to say by the very nakedness of death that not everything was false, that there was, in the final analysis, something absolute and unmistakable, something that no amount of subterfuge could ever alter.

He died, then, for my sake—and so doing, saved himself.

Cautiously, I leaned over the tub. Why had he turned away at the crucial moment? Large drops gathered at the mouth of the faucet and hit the red water in shuddering slaps. I had to make sure. I tried to lift him by the shoulders—he rolled like a log, rolled face up, water streaming off in tears, droplets trembling on his bristly chin. I had to make sure. The razor? I couldn’t pry it from his icy fist. Why not? Shouldn’t the fingers loosen when the heart has beaten its last? Why wouldn’t he let go? And the tears, why were they false? Why did he lie in precisely
that
position? Why did he hide his face? And why—why did the pipes whine and shriek and sing—?

“Give me the razor!” I screamed. “Traitor! Bastard! Give me the razor!!”