Memoirs Found In a Bathtub (8 page)

“By the way,” said Major Erms in a confidential whisper when we were walking alone down a white corridor, “if you ever need to throw anything away—an unimportant document, a note, or a rough draft of something—never use the toilet for that purpose. It only makes unnecessary work for our people.”

“How come?” I asked. He frowned impatiently.

“Must everything be spelled out for you? That was the Department of Sanitation we just passed. I use it as a shortcut. All our drainpipes are monitored, the sewage carefully filtered, every bit of it, before it can be cleared. These are, after all, roads to the outside, hence potential information leaks. Ah, our elevator.”

It opened and an officer in a trench coat stepped out with a violin case tucked under his arm. He asked us if we would mind waiting while he moved his packages off the elevator. Suddenly there was a loud bang, quite close—he leaped from the elevator, tossed his packages at us and dashed up the corridor, frantically opening the violin case. One package caught me in the chest and I fell back against the closing elevator door. The chatter of an automatic began around the comer; something cracked overhead and a cloud of chalky dust came down the walls.

“Down! Down!” yelled Major Erms, pulling my arm. We hit the floor together. The corridor thundered from one end to the other, bullets whined above our heads, plaster sprinkled down. The officer fell, his violin case flew open—confetti came swirling out like snow. The smell of gunpowder seared our nostrils. A small capsule was pressed into my hand.

“When I give the signal, put that between your teeth and bite!” Major Erms shouted in my ear. Someone was running.

A deafening explosion. Major Erms pulled out several envelopes, stuffed them in his mouth and chewed like mad, spitting out stamps as if they were pits. Another explosion, a grenade.

The fallen officer gave the death rattle, his left leg beat against the hard floor. Erms counted the kicks, got up on his elbows—and gave a cheer:

“Two plus five! We won!” He sprang to his feet, dusted himself off and handed me the folder. “Come on, we’ll try to get you some meal tickets.”

“What was all that about?” I gasped, still shaken.

The dying man kicked the floor twice, five times, twice, five times…

“That? An unmasking.”

“And … now we just leave?”

“Sure. This,” he pointed to the twitching body, “is not our Department.”

“But—”

“Section Seven will take care of him. There, you see? Here come the Theologicals.”

A chaplain approached, preceded by an altar boy ringing a Sanctus bell. As we entered the elevator, I could still hear the dying man’s coded agony. At the tenth level Major Erms held out his hand instead of getting off.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“The capsule.”

“Oh. Here it is.”

I was clutching it in my hand. He put it in a wallet.

“What was it?”

“Nothing.”

He let me out first, and we headed for the nearest door. A fat officer sat by a table in a perfectly square room, munching candy from a paper bag. Other than that, there was only a very small black door, barely large enough for even a child.

“Where’s Prandtl?” asked Major Erms. The fat officer, still chewing, held up three fingers. His uniform was unbuttoned. He seemed to pour out over his chair. The face was bloated, the neck full of folds, and he wheezed terribly when he breathed.

“Good,” said Major Erms. “Prandtl will be here any minute. Make yourself at home, hell take good care of you. And whenever you have a free moment, drop in for those meal tickets. Be seeing you!”

After he left, I took a seat by the wall and watched the fat man. The candy crunched in his teeth, the lips smacked. I looked away, afraid he might have a stroke right before my eyes—the skin around his neck was awfully blue, and his breathing came in great, tortured gasps. But this was apparently normal for the fat man; he hardly seemed to notice. He fought for breath, he munched candy. I wanted to grab the paper bag from his hands. He stuffed himself, one candy after another, swallowing hard, turning red, then purple; the sticky fingers reached for another. I looked away, but I couldn’t turn my back on him altogether—I was afraid he might choke to death behind my back, and I didn’t want a corpse behind me. I closed my eyes and tried to think.

Had my situation improved or not? Apparently it had. But then there were so many
but
’s. For instance, Major Erms had been quite prepared to poison me (I had no doubts about the contents of that capsule). Then there was the little old man in the gold spectacles—chances were I wasn’t free of him yet. But my big worry was the instructions. They duplicated to the letter my every step inside the Building—more, my every thought! This indicated I was still under observation, though Erms had vehemently denied that—however, he later admitted that our conversation was not to be taken literally, that everything was in code, an allusion to other meanings, hidden meanings, meanings on different levels. But this was not what really bothered me.
I was beginning to doubt the very existence of the instructions themselves.
Of course, that was utter nonsense. Why would they observe me and subject me to all these tests if I were not on a Special Mission, if I were not of great importance to them? Clearly, I was no earthly use to anyone without this assignment, this assignment which had come so unexpectedly, so mysteriously, and which they sometimes suspended, sometimes half-heartedly confirmed.

If I could ask them one question, just one question, it would be: “What do you want me to do?”

And any answer would be welcome, any answer at all … except one…

The fat officer startled me with a loud snort. He blew his nose and examined the handkerchief carefully before folding it and putting it away.

The door opened and a tall, gaunt officer walked in. Something about him—I couldn’t quite put my finger on it—gave the impression of a civilian disguised in a uniform. He took off his glasses and twirled them as he approached.

“You wanted to see me?”

“Mr. Prandtl from the Department of Codes?” I asked, getting up.

“Except that I’m a captain. Remain seated. Interested in codes, eh?”

The last syllable was aimed like a shot between my eyes.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Don’t call me Captain. Coffee?”

“Please.”

The small black door swung open and a hand placed a tray with two cups of coffee before us. Prandtl put on his glasses and his features froze into a hard, fierce expression.

“Define code,” he snapped like a hammer on metal.

“Code is a system of signs which can be translated into ordinary language with the help of a key.”

“The smell of a rose—code or not?”

“Not a code, because it is not a sign for anything; it is merely itself, a smell. Only if it were used to signify something else could we consider it a code.”

I was glad of this opportunity to demonstrate my ability to think logically. The fat officer leaned over in my direction until his buttons began to pop. I ignored him. Prandtl took off his glasses and smiled.

“The rose, does it smell just because, or for a reason?”

“It attracts bees with its smell, the bees pollinate it…”

He nodded.

“Precisely. Now let’s generalize. The eye converts a light wave into a neural code, which the brain must decipher. And the light wave, from where does it come? A lamp? A star? That information lies in its structure; it can be read.”

“But that’s not a code,” I interrupted. “A star or a lamp doesn’t attempt to conceal information, which is the whole purpose of a code.”

“Oh?”

“Obviously! It all depends on the intention of the sender.”

I reached for my coffee. A fly was floating in it. Had the fat officer planted it there? I glanced at him: he was picking his nose. I fished the fly out with my spoon and let it drop on the saucer. It clinked—metal, sure enough.

“The intention?” Prandtl put on his glasses. The fat officer (I was keeping an eye on him) began to rummage through his pockets, wheezing so violently that his face moved like a bunch of balloons. It was revolting.

“Take a light wave,” Prandtl continued, “emitted by a star. What kind of star? Big or little? Hot or cold? What’s its history, its future, its chemical composition? Can we or can we not tell all this from its light?”

“We can, with the proper know-how.”

“And the proper know-how?”

“Yes?”

“That’s the key, isn’t it?”

“Still,” I said carefully, “light is not code.”

“It isn’t?”

“The information it carries wasn’t hidden there. And besides, using your argument, we’d have to conclude that everything is code.”

“And so it is, absolutely everything. Code or camouflage. Yourself included.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m a code?”

“Or a camouflage. Every code is a camouflage, not every camouflage is a code.”

“Perhaps,” I said, following it through, “if you are thinking about genetics, heredity, those programs of ourselves we carry around in every cell… In that way I am a code for my progeny, my descendants. But camouflage? What would I have to do with camouflage.”

“You,” Prandtl replied drily, “are not in my jurisdiction.” He went over to the small black door. A hand appeared with a piece of paper, which he turned over to me.

“THREAT OUTFLANKING MANEUVER STOP,” it read, “REINFORCEMENTS SECTOR SEVEN NINE FOUR HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE STOP QUARTERMASTER SEVENTH OPERATIONAL GROUP GANZ-MIRST COL DIPL STOP.”

I looked up—another fly was floating in my coffee. The fat officer yawned.

“Well?” asked Prandtl. His voice seemed far away. I pulled myself together.

“A telegram, a deciphered telegram.”

“No. It’s in code, we have yet to crack it.”

“But it looks like—”

“Camouflage,” he said. “They used to camouflage codes as innocent information, private letters, poems, etc. Now each side tries to make the other believe that the message isn’t coded at all. You follow?”

“I guess.”

“Now here’s the text run through our D.E.C. machine.” He went back to the small black door, pulled a piece of paper from the fingers there and gave it to me.

“BABIRUSANTOSITORY IMPECLANCYBILLISTIC MATOTEOSIS AIN’T CATACYPTICALLY AMBREGATORY NOR PHAROGRANTOGRAPHICALLY OSCILLUMPTUOUS BY RETROVECTACALCIPHICATION NEITHER,” I read and stared at him.

“That’s deciphered?”

He smiled tolerantly.

“The second stage,” he explained. “The code was designed to yield gibberish upon any attempt to crack it. This is to convince us that the telegram wasn’t coded in the first place, that the original message can be taken at face value.”

“But it can’t?” He nodded.

“Watch. I’ll run it through again.”

A piece of paper dropped from the hand in the small black door. Something red moved around inside. But Prandtl got in the way so I couldn’t see. I picked up the paper—it was still warm, either from the hand or from the machine.

“ABRUPTIVE CELERATION OF ALL DERVISHES CARRYING BIBUGGISH PYRITES VIA TURMAND HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.”

That was the text. I shook my head.

“Now what?” I asked.

“The machine has done what it can. Now we take over.” And he yelled, “Kruuh!”

“Huh?” the fat officer groaned, suddenly jolted from his stupor. He turned his bleary eyes to Prandtl. Prandtl bellowed:

“Abruptive celeration!”

“Therrr…” croaked the fat officer.

“All dervishes!”

“Weeee! Beeee!” he bleated.

“Bibuggish pyrites!”

“Naaaa! Waaaa!”

“Turmand!”

“Saa … serr…” Saliva trickled down his chin. “Waa … wan … serr … rrr … Grrr! Growl! Ho ho ho! Ha ha ha!” He broke into wild laughter which ended in a fit of horrible gurgling. The face turned deep purple, tears streamed down his cheeks and jowls, the massive body was racked with sobs.

“Enough, Kruuh! Enough!!” yelled Prandtl. “An error,” he said, turning to me. “False association. But you still heard the entire text.”

“Text? What text?”

“There will be no answer.”
The fat officer sat back in his chair, trembling. Little by little he quieted down and, moaning softly to himself, caressed his face with both hands, as if to comfort it.

“There will be no answer?” I repeated. Hadn’t I heard those words recently? But where? “Is that all it says?” I asked Prandtl. He gave a twisted smile.

“If I were to show you a text richer in meaning, we might both regret it later on. Even so…”

“Even so?!” I flared up, as if that careless remark somehow concerned me vitally. Prandtl shrugged.

“This was a sample of our latest code, not too complicated, in multiple camouflage.”

He was clearly trying to divert my attention from that slip. I wanted to get back to it, but all I could say was:

“According to you, everything is code.”

“Correct.”

“In that case, every text?…”

“Yes.”

“A literary text?”

“Certainly. Come with me.” He motioned me over to the small black door. There was no other room inside, only the dark surface of a machine, a small keyboard, a nickel-plated slot from which a piece of printout tape curled like a reptile tongue.

“Give me a line from some literary work,” Prandtl said, turning to me.

“Shakespeare?”

“Whatever you like.”

“You maintain that his plays are nothing but coded messages?”

“Depends what you mean by a coded message. But let’s give it a try, shall we?”

I tried to think, but nothing came to me except Othello’s “Excellent wretch!” That seemed a bit brief and inappropriate.

“I’ve got it!” I announced with sudden inspiration.
“My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound: Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?”

“Fine.”

Prandtl had hardly typed this out when the tape began to move from the slot, a paper snake. He gently handed the end of it to me, and I waited patiently while the printout emerged. The vibration of the machine suddenly stopped and the rest of the tape came out blank. I read:

“BAS TARD MATT HEWS VAR LET MATT HEWS SCUM WOULD BASH THAT FLAP EAR ASS WITH PLEA SURE GREAT THAT MATT HEWS BAS”