The Erasers (37 page)

“
How did that riddle
of yours go yesterday? What anim
al
…
”

The drunk, delighted, sits down opposite him and searches
h
is memory. What animal
…
Suddenly his face lights up; he rinks and begins enunciating with an infinitely sly expression:

“
What animal is black, has six legs, and flies?
”

“
No,
”
Wallas says,
“
it was something else.
”

A wipe of the rag. The manager shrugs. Some people actually lave time to waste.

But he mistrusts the friendly manners his lodger puts on so
w
illingly. A man who dresses like that doesn
’
t take a room and lien spend the whole night out. And why did that man from the
p
olice station want to talk to him last night?

“
I
’
m the manager.
”

“
Oh, it was you! You
’
re the one who told an inspector that lonsense about some fictitious son of Professor Dupont?
”

“
I didn
’
t say anything like that. I said that sometimes young people came in here, they
’
re all ages—some young enough to ^e Dupont
’
s sons
…
”

“
Did you say he had a son?
”

“
I don
’
t even know whether he had any!
”

“
All right, let me speak to the manager.
”

“
I
’
m the manager.
”

“
Oh, it was you! You
’
re the one who told that nonsense
a
bout the fictitious son of Professor Dupont?
”

“
I didn
’
t say anything.
”

“
Did you say he had a son?
”

“
I don
’
t even know whether he had any. All I said was that
y
oung people of all ages came in here.
”

“
You
’
re the one who told th
at nonsense, or was it the mana
ger?
”

“
I
’
m the manager.
”

“
You
’
re the one, young people nonsense, professor at the
b
ar?
”

“
I
’
m the manager!
”

“
All right. Let me certainly have a son, a long time age fictitious young died so strangely….
”

“
I
’
m the manager. I
’
m the manager. The manager. I
’
m th
e
manager
…
the manager
…
the manager
…
”

In the troubled water of the aquarium, furtive shadows pass
.
The manager is motionless at his post. His massive body lean: on his outspread arms; his hands grip the edge of the bar; hi
s
head hangs down, almost threatening, the mouth somewha
t
twisted, the gaze blank. Around him the familiar specters dance their waltz, like moths circling a lampshade and bumping
into
it, like dust in the sun, like little boat
s lost at sea, lulling to the
sea
’
s rhythm their delicate cargo, the old casks, the dead fish, the rigging and tackle, the buo
ys, the stale bread, the knives
and the men.