You know, the cut of the straitjacket, things like that… Here are some other items: The ABC’s of Self-surveillance, Automated Self-immolation …”
I backed away, trying to defend myself against this flood of talk and dust and decay, this barrage of strange terminology—triple tails, coded leaks, spotted caches, exposed plants, strategic lays, integrated risks, sensitive channels, high-grade rendezvous entrapment…
Unable to take any more, I told the old man I had to leave. He glanced at his watch, a large silver onion.
“Is that a secret watch?” I asked.
“Of course it’s a secret watch, what do you think?”
He put it back in his pocket and frowned as I mumbled some excuse about dropping in another time to pick out what I needed… He didn’t seem to hear, he kept wanting to take me to other sections. Naked bulbs lit up the crowded shelves and cabinets like low-hung stars. Even at the exit he tried to show me another book, pointing out special pages, praising the work as if I were a potential buyer and he a half-mad bibliopole or bibliophile.
“But you took nothing, sir! You took nothing!” he pestered me all the way back to the catalog room. To get rid of him, I asked for the book on angels and a handbook of astronomy. I signed for them illegibly and left, a thick manuscript under my arm—the book on angels, as it turned out, had never been published. I took a deep breath of fresh air out in the corridor. What a relief! But my clothes still carried the smell of rotting leather, bookbinder’s glue and parchment. I felt like I’d just stepped out of a slaughterhouse.
6
I had hardly left the Archives when a thought hit me. I returned and compared the door number with the one scribbled on my card: sure enough, I had made a mistake, I had taken the second digit for an eight instead of a three. So my real destination was 3383.
The fact that I had made a mistake and misread a number was a tremendous comfort to me. Until now, everything had seemed accidental but in reality had gone according to some plan. But this visit to the Archives, that was a genuine accident. And the Building was responsible for it: the room number had been written in too carelessly. Human error, then, still operated here; mystery and freedom were still in the realm of possibility.
Then too, the examining magistrate was as much to blame as I, the defendant—we would have a good laugh together and the matter would be dismissed. I headed for 3383 confidently.
Judging from the great number of phones on every desk, 3383 was not just another office. I went straight to the head official’s door—but found no knob to turn. The receptionist asked if she could be of any help. My explanation grew involved and complicated because I couldn’t tell her the truth.
“But you have no appointment,” she repeated over and over again. I demanded an appointment. But that was out of the question, she said; I would have to submit my petition in triplicate through the proper channels, then get the necessary signatures. But my Mission was Special, Top Secret. I tried to explain without raising my voice; it could only be discussed in absolute privacy. But she was busy with the phones—answering with a word or two here, pressing a button or two there, putting some people on hold, cutting off others—and hardly seemed to be aware of my existence.
After an hour of this I swallowed my pride and began to plead with her. But pleading didn’t have the least effect, so I showed her the contents of my folder, the blueprint of the Building, the outline for Operation Shovel. I might have been showing her old newspapers for all the response this produced. She was the perfect secretary; nothing existed beyond the narrow limits of her routine. Driven to desperate measures, I let out a stream of terrible confessions—I told her about the open safe, about how I had unwittingly caused the suicide of the little old man, and as none of this made the least
I backed away, trying to defend myself against this flood of talk and dust and decay, this barrage of strange terminology—triple tails, coded leaks, spotted caches, exposed plants, strategic lays, integrated risks, sensitive channels, high-grade rendezvous entrapment…
Unable to take any more, I told the old man I had to leave. He glanced at his watch, a large silver onion.
“Is that a secret watch?” I asked.
“Of course it’s a secret watch, what do you think?”
He put it back in his pocket and frowned as I mumbled some excuse about dropping in another time to pick out what I needed… He didn’t seem to hear, he kept wanting to take me to other sections. Naked bulbs lit up the crowded shelves and cabinets like low-hung stars. Even at the exit he tried to show me another book, pointing out special pages, praising the work as if I were a potential buyer and he a half-mad bibliopole or bibliophile.
“But you took nothing, sir! You took nothing!” he pestered me all the way back to the catalog room. To get rid of him, I asked for the book on angels and a handbook of astronomy. I signed for them illegibly and left, a thick manuscript under my arm—the book on angels, as it turned out, had never been published. I took a deep breath of fresh air out in the corridor. What a relief! But my clothes still carried the smell of rotting leather, bookbinder’s glue and parchment. I felt like I’d just stepped out of a slaughterhouse.
6
I had hardly left the Archives when a thought hit me. I returned and compared the door number with the one scribbled on my card: sure enough, I had made a mistake, I had taken the second digit for an eight instead of a three. So my real destination was 3383.
The fact that I had made a mistake and misread a number was a tremendous comfort to me. Until now, everything had seemed accidental but in reality had gone according to some plan. But this visit to the Archives, that was a genuine accident. And the Building was responsible for it: the room number had been written in too carelessly. Human error, then, still operated here; mystery and freedom were still in the realm of possibility.
Then too, the examining magistrate was as much to blame as I, the defendant—we would have a good laugh together and the matter would be dismissed. I headed for 3383 confidently.
Judging from the great number of phones on every desk, 3383 was not just another office. I went straight to the head official’s door—but found no knob to turn. The receptionist asked if she could be of any help. My explanation grew involved and complicated because I couldn’t tell her the truth.
“But you have no appointment,” she repeated over and over again. I demanded an appointment. But that was out of the question, she said; I would have to submit my petition in triplicate through the proper channels, then get the necessary signatures. But my Mission was Special, Top Secret. I tried to explain without raising my voice; it could only be discussed in absolute privacy. But she was busy with the phones—answering with a word or two here, pressing a button or two there, putting some people on hold, cutting off others—and hardly seemed to be aware of my existence.
After an hour of this I swallowed my pride and began to plead with her. But pleading didn’t have the least effect, so I showed her the contents of my folder, the blueprint of the Building, the outline for Operation Shovel. I might have been showing her old newspapers for all the response this produced. She was the perfect secretary; nothing existed beyond the narrow limits of her routine. Driven to desperate measures, I let out a stream of terrible confessions—I told her about the open safe, about how I had unwittingly caused the suicide of the little old man, and as none of this made the least
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