The Erasers (18 page)

A long silence. The drunk
opens his mouth wide. From be
hind the counter comes the sound of a faucet dripping regularly into the sink.

“
Yes, a room rented by the day.
”

“
Sometimes.
”

“
I’ll
send the form, but I prefer being registered as soon as possible
…
Especially in dealing with certain kinds of people
…
”

The offhandedness with which this man talks about him in his presence has something so shocking about it that Wallas is on the point of protesting—when he hears, once again, the chief commissioner
’
s ironic voice:

“
If you
’
re not registered, what proof is there?
”

In short, if he is trying to get him in trouble, the manager is making a mistake: by neglecting to register him, he was, on the contrary, permitting Laurent to continue his little joke. And with that strange man you never know where a joke is going to stop—or where it starts. Wallas, though deciding that it is scarcely reasonable to pay attention to such trifles, feels a kind of contentment in finding himself justified on this point.

“
Name is Wallas. W-a-double 1-a-s. Wallas. At least that
’
s what he says.
”

The phrase is deliberately insulting—libelous even—and the way the manager stares at his customer while pronouncing it finally obliges the latter to intervene. He takes out his wallet to get at his police card, intending to thrust it under the manager
’
s nose but he has barely started his gesture when he remembers the photograph attached to the official card: the photograph of a man obviously older than himself, whose heavy brown mustache makes him look like a music-hall Turk.

Of course this too-noticeable
“
identifying mark
”
was incompatible with Fabius
’
theories as to the outer aspect of special agents. Wallas had to
shave off his mustache and his
face was transformed, rejuvenated, almost unrecognizable to a stranger. He still has not had time to have his old papers changed; as for the pink card—the ministerial pass—he must, of course, avoid using that.

After having pretended to check something on a ticket taken out of his wallet at random—the return coupon of his train ticket—he puts the whole thing back in his pocket, as naturally as possible. After all, he is not supposed to hear what is being said on the telephone.

Moreover, the manager finds his insinuations turning against him, and the questions being asked at the other end of the wire are already making him lose his patience:

“
Of course not, I tell you he arrived last night!
”

“
Yes, only last night! You
’
ll have to ask him about the night before that.
”

“
In any case, I would have notified you!
”

The drunk would like to add a word; he half stands up from his chair:

“
And then he tried to kill me!
…
Hey! You better tell them he tried to kill me too!
”

But the manager does not bother to answer. He hangs up the
receiver and goes back behind his bar, to rummage through a
drawer full of papers. He is looking for his police forms, but
it has been too long since he has needed them and he has difficulty finding them again. When he finally gets hold of an old
and flyspecked form, Wallas will have to fill it out, show his
carte d
’
identit
é
,
explain his transformation. Then he will be
able to leave—to inquire at the police station if a man in a
raincoat was seen last night…

The drunk will go back to sleep in his chair, the manager will wipe off the tables and start washing the glasses in the sink. This time, he will turn off
the faucet more carefully, and
the little drops that strike the surface of the water with metronomic regularity will stop.

The scene will be over.

His heavy body resting on his widespread arms, his hands gripping the edge of the bar, his head hanging forward, his mouth somewhat twisted, the manager will go on staring into space.

In the murky water of the aquarium, furtive shadows pass
—
an undulation whose vague existence dissolves of its own accord
…
and afterward it is questionable whether there had been anything to begin with. But the dark patch reappears and makes two or three circles in broad daylight, soon coming back to melt, behind a curtain of algae, deep in the protoplasmic depths. A last eddy, quickly dying away, makes the mass tremble for a second. Again everything is calm.
…
Until, suddenly, a new form emerges and presses its dream face against the glass
…
Pauline, sweet Pauline
…
and no sooner does it appear than it vanishes in its turn, to make way for other specters and phantoms. The drunk is making up a riddle. A man with thin lips, in an overcoat buttoned up to his neck is waiting on his chair in the middle of an empty room. His motionless face, his gloved hands clasped on his knees, betray no impatience. He has plenty of time. Nothing can keep his plan from being carried out. He is preparing to receive a visit
—
not the one from a disturbed, evasive person without any strength of character—but a visit, on the contrary, from someone who can be counted on: it is to this person that tonight
’
s execution, the second, will be entrusted. In the first murder, he had been kept in the background, but his work was flawless;
w
hile Garinati, for whom everything had been so meticulously prepared, had not even been capable of turning out the light. \nd now, this morning, he had let his man get away:

“
What time this morning?
”

“
I don
’
t have any idea,
”
the manager says.

“
You didn
’
t see him leave?
”

“
If I had seen him leave, I
’
d know what time it was!
”

Leaning on his bar, the manager wonders if he should tell Wallas about this visit. No. They
’
ll have to manage by themselves: no one told him to say anything.

Besides, Wallas has already left the little
café
to return to the scene
…

Once again Wallas is walking toward the bridge. Ahead of him, under a snowy sky, extends the Rue de Brabant—and its grim housefronts. The employees are now all at work, in front of their ledgers and their adding machines: the figures form columns, the tree trunks are piled on the docks; mechanical arms maneuver the controls of the cranes, the windlasses, the keys of the adding machines, without wasting a second, without a slip, without an error; the wood export business is in full swing.

The street is as deserted and silent as it was the first time. Only a few cars parked in front of the doors, under the black plaques with their gold letters, testify to the activity now reigning behind these brick walls. The other modifications—if there are any—are imperceptible: there is no change in the varnished wood doors, recessed above their five steps, nor in the curtainless windows—two to the left, one to the right, and, above, four floors of identical
rectangular openings. There is
not much daylight for working in these offices where the electri
c
lights—for economy—have not been turned on—and the near sighted faces lean their bespectacled eyes toward the bi
g
ledgers. Wallas feels overcome by a great weariness.

But having crossed the canal
that divides the Boulevard Cir
culaire, he stops to let a streetcar pass.

Ahead of him, the plaque indicating the number of the line shows the number 6 in yellow on a vermilion disk. The car, its new paint shiny, looks exactly like the one that had appeared this morning in the same spot. And like this morning, it comes to a stop in front of Wallas.

The latter, who was not looking forward to the long, tiresome walk along the Rue de Brabant and the Rue Janeck, climbs up the iron step and goes to sit down inside: this streetcar can only take him closer to his goal. With a ring of its bell the car starts up, its machinery groaning. Wallas watches the houses along the cana
l
s edge slide by.

But once the conductor has passed through, Wallas realizes his mistake: the number 6 line does not continue along the parkway as he had thought; instead it turns off at the first stop and heads south, through the suburbs. And since no line follows this unfrequented portion of the parkway that leads to the other end of lie Rue Janeck—where the post office mentioned by the drunk must be—Wallas remains rather confused. It is the conductor who explains matters to him, showing him a plan of the transportation network throughout the city: instead of heading directly for this post office, Wallas will first stop at Doctor Juard
’
s clinic—which is preferable from every point of view. Line number 4, which this one crosses at the next stop, will take him there.

He thanks the conductor, pays his fare, and gets off.

Around him, the scene is still the same: the parkway, the canal, the irregular buildings.

“
Then she told him that since that was how things were, he might as well leaveI
”

“
And he left?
”

“
No, he didn
’
t. He wanted to know if it was all true, what she had just told him. At first he said it was silly, that he didn
’
t believe her and that they
’
d see about it; but when he realized that the others were going to
come back, he was afraid it would turn against him and he remembered he had things to do. Things to do! We know what kind of things. So you know what she said?
‘
Don
’
t do too many things,
’
she said,
‘
or you
’
ll wear yourself out!
’”

“
Oh
…
what did that mean?
”

“
Oh, you know, that meant that he might still run into him: she meant the car and everything else.
”

“
No!
”

Wallas is sitting facing the front of the car, next to the window; there is an empty seat to his right. The two voices
—
woman
’
s voices, with uneducated intonations—come from the seats behind him.

“
She wished him
‘
Good luck!
’
when he left.
”

“
And did he run into him?
”

“
No one knows yet. Anyway, if he met him, there must have been a rumpus!
”

“
I
’
ll say.
”

“
Well, we
’
ll find out tomorrow, I hope.
”

Neither woman seems to have any special interest in the outcome of this matter. The people in question are neither relatives nor friends. It is even apparent that the existence of the two women is unrelated to this kind of story
…
but such people enjoy discussing the glorious events in the lives of great
criminals and kings. Unless it is simply a story in the serial published by some paper.

The streetcar, after following a winding route along the somber buildings, reaches the central part of the city whose relative prosperity Wallas has already noticed. He recognizes the Rue de Berlin, in passing, that leads to the prefecture. He turns around toward the ticket taker, who is supposed to tell him when it is time to get off.

The first thing he notices is a bright red sign with a huge red arrow over the words:

For drawing

For school

For the office

VICTOR HUGO STATIONERY SHOP

2, Rue Victor Hugo

(One Hundred Yards to Your Left)

Quality Supplies