mention was made of the dead. Could the Press be concealing the seriousness of the situation? He looked around, turned his eyes up to the ceiling. ‘And suppose this building were now to disappear?’ he suddenly asked himself. He could feel the cold sweat on his forehead, a knot in his stomach. ‘I’m imagining things again. That’s always been my trouble.’ He summoned the waiter and asked for his bill and, on receiving his change, asked him as he pointed to the newspaper:
—Now then? What do you make of this?
Without even attempting to make the gesture appear natural, he opened his hand. The waiter, whom he had identified earlier as category R, shrugged his shoulders:
—To be frank, I couldn’t care less. I think it’s a joke.
The civil servant accepted the change in silence and put away his newspaper. Looking quite disdainful, he left and went in search of a telephone box. He dialled the number of the Security Forces (SF) and when someone answered he hastily informed them that in such and such a road, in such and such a café, a waiter had been acting suspiciously. In what way? He told me he couldn’t care less and thought the whole situation was a joke. And then he actually said that in his opinion it was no bad thing, and that as far as he was concerned everything could disappear. He didn’t? He did. He was not asked for any identification and he offered none: such vague information was unlikely to be rewarded with promotion to category C. But it was a promising start. He emerged from the telephone box and hovered around. Fifteen minutes later a dark-coloured car drew up in front of the café. Two armed men got out and entered the premises. They soon reappeared, bringing the handcuffed waiter with them. The civil servant sighed, turned on his heels and went off whistling.
He felt better out in the fresh air. The natural impulse which had made him telephone and the peace of mind he felt on seeing the waiter being escorted from the café and pushed into the car by the SF caused him some surprise. ‘Serving one’s city is the duty of every citizen,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘If everyone were like me, these things would probably never have happened. I pride myself on doing my duty. We must help the Government.’ The streets did not appear to have suffered much damage, but there was a general air of neglect throughout the city, as if someone had been going around throwing bits and pieces here and there, like children dropping cake-crumbs: at first, you scarcely notice the mess, then it becomes clear the cake is no longer in a fit state to be served to guests. But there were signs of havoc (or should one say absence?). All the paving on the final stretch of the avenue, an extension of two hundred metres, had vanished. There also appeared to be a burst pipe underground, judging from the enormous crater where the mud swirled and bubbled. Workmen from the Water Department (WD) dug deep gutters around the edges of the crater, exposing the water-pipes. Others consulted the map to find out where the water had to be dammed up and diverted to another ramification of the network. It was a heavily populated area. The civil servant from the DSR went up to take a closer look and began talking to a man standing beside him:
—When did this happen?
The customary handshake revealed that the person he was speaking to belonged to category E.
—Last night. It was quite dreadful, as you can imagine. The street disappeared with everything in it. Even my car.
—Your car?
—All the cars. Everything. Traffic-signals. Pillar-boxes. Lamp-posts. See for yourself. Wiped off the face of the earth.
—But the Government will almost certainly pay compensation. You’ll get your car back.
—Of course. I don’t doubt it. But has it occurred to you that in this area, according to the statistics provided by the Traffic Wardens, there were between a hundred and eighty and two hundred and twenty cars? And who knows, the
—Now then? What do you make of this?
Without even attempting to make the gesture appear natural, he opened his hand. The waiter, whom he had identified earlier as category R, shrugged his shoulders:
—To be frank, I couldn’t care less. I think it’s a joke.
The civil servant accepted the change in silence and put away his newspaper. Looking quite disdainful, he left and went in search of a telephone box. He dialled the number of the Security Forces (SF) and when someone answered he hastily informed them that in such and such a road, in such and such a café, a waiter had been acting suspiciously. In what way? He told me he couldn’t care less and thought the whole situation was a joke. And then he actually said that in his opinion it was no bad thing, and that as far as he was concerned everything could disappear. He didn’t? He did. He was not asked for any identification and he offered none: such vague information was unlikely to be rewarded with promotion to category C. But it was a promising start. He emerged from the telephone box and hovered around. Fifteen minutes later a dark-coloured car drew up in front of the café. Two armed men got out and entered the premises. They soon reappeared, bringing the handcuffed waiter with them. The civil servant sighed, turned on his heels and went off whistling.
He felt better out in the fresh air. The natural impulse which had made him telephone and the peace of mind he felt on seeing the waiter being escorted from the café and pushed into the car by the SF caused him some surprise. ‘Serving one’s city is the duty of every citizen,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘If everyone were like me, these things would probably never have happened. I pride myself on doing my duty. We must help the Government.’ The streets did not appear to have suffered much damage, but there was a general air of neglect throughout the city, as if someone had been going around throwing bits and pieces here and there, like children dropping cake-crumbs: at first, you scarcely notice the mess, then it becomes clear the cake is no longer in a fit state to be served to guests. But there were signs of havoc (or should one say absence?). All the paving on the final stretch of the avenue, an extension of two hundred metres, had vanished. There also appeared to be a burst pipe underground, judging from the enormous crater where the mud swirled and bubbled. Workmen from the Water Department (WD) dug deep gutters around the edges of the crater, exposing the water-pipes. Others consulted the map to find out where the water had to be dammed up and diverted to another ramification of the network. It was a heavily populated area. The civil servant from the DSR went up to take a closer look and began talking to a man standing beside him:
—When did this happen?
The customary handshake revealed that the person he was speaking to belonged to category E.
—Last night. It was quite dreadful, as you can imagine. The street disappeared with everything in it. Even my car.
—Your car?
—All the cars. Everything. Traffic-signals. Pillar-boxes. Lamp-posts. See for yourself. Wiped off the face of the earth.
—But the Government will almost certainly pay compensation. You’ll get your car back.
—Of course. I don’t doubt it. But has it occurred to you that in this area, according to the statistics provided by the Traffic Wardens, there were between a hundred and eighty and two hundred and twenty cars? And who knows, the
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