The Erasers

3

Before coming to a complete halt, the drawbridge platform quivers slightly. Paying no attention to this almost imperceptible movement, the bicyclist has already passed through the gate to continue on his way:

“Good morning, Monsieur.”

Jumping on his vehicle, he has shouted, “Good morning” instead of “Good-bye.” They had exchanged two or three remarks about the weather, waiting until passage was re-established.

The drawbridge has a single platform; the system’s axis of rotation is on the other side of the canal. Heads raised, they watch the girders and cables under the platform gradually vanish from sight.

Then the free end of the bridge, showing a cross section of the roadway, passes in front of their eyes; and then, all at once, they see the entire surface of smooth asphalt stretching toward the other bank between the two sidewalks with their railings on the outer sides.

Their glances have continued to move slowly downward, following the movement of the bridge, until the two corner plates of iron-polished by the car wheels-have come exactly opposite the other pair on the bank. Suddenly the noise of the motor has stopped, and in the silence, the electric bell has rung, announcing to the pedestrians that they may cross the bridge again.

“I wouldn’t be surprised!” the bicyclist has repeated.

“Maybe you’re right I Good luck!”

“Good morning, Monsieur.”

But on the other side of the barrier, it was apparent that everything was not yet over; because of a certain elasticity in the materials, the platform’s descent had not stopped when the machinery did; it had continued for several seconds, moving a fraction of an inch perhaps, creating a tiny gap in the continuity of the roadway which brought the metal rim slightly above its position of equilibrium; and the oscillations-growing fainter and fainter, less and less noticeable, but whose cessation it was difficult to be certain of-consequently approximated-by a series of successive prolongations and regressions on either side of a quite illusory fixity-a phenomenon completed, nevertheless, some time before.

This time, the bridge is open to traffic. No barge is seeking passage. The workman in the navy blue pea jacket, idle, stares blankly at the sky. He glances toward the man walking toward him, recognizes Wallas and nods to him, as he might to someone he was accustomed to see every day.

On either side of the gap that marks the end of the movable part of the bridge, the metal corner plates look motionless and appear to be on the same level.

At the end of the Rue Joseph-Janeck, Wallas turns right onto the Boulevard Circulaire. Some twenty yards farther on, the Rue Jonas begins, and there is a small post office at the corner.

A neighborhood post office: only six windows and three telephone booths; between the main door and the booths: a large ground-glass window, and beneath it the long, slightly tilted writing desk where people can fill out forms.

At this hour, the room is empty and, on the employees’ side of the counter, only two elderly ladies can be seen, nibbling their sandwiches over immaculate napkins. Wallas decides it is better to wait to begin his investigation until the entire staff is present. He will come back at one-thirty. In any case, he will have to eat lunch sooner or later.

He heads toward a NOTICE that looks as if it had been posted recently, and to justify his entrance he pretends to examine it with interest.

It is a series of paragraphs announcing certain modifications made by the minister in the organization of details in the postal system-nothing, in short, of interest to the public, aside from a few hypothetical specialists. For an outsider, the precise nature of these modifications does not seem clear, so that Wallas finds himself wondering if there is any real difference between the new state of affairs and the one that existed previously.

As he leaves, he has the impression that the two women are staring at him in perplexity.

Retracing his steps, Wallas notices, on the other side of the Rue Janeck, an automat of modest size but equipped with the most recent machinery. The chromium-plated dispensers are lined up along the walls; at the rear sits the cashier from whom the diners obtain special tokens. The entire length of the room is occupied by two rows of small round plastic tables attached to the floor. Standing in front of these tables, some fifteen people-continually changing-are eating with quick, precise gestures. Girls in white laboratory smocks clear the tables and wipe them off once the diners leave. On the white walls, a sign reproduced many times:

“Please Hurry. Thank You.”

Wallas examines all the machines. Each of them contains-placed on a series of glass trays, equidistant and superposed-a column of earthenware plates with precisely the same culinary preparation on each one reproduced down to the last lettuce leaf. When a column is emptied, anonymous hands fill up the blanks from behind.

Having reached the last dispenser, Wallas has not yet made up his mind. Besides, his selection is of slight importance, for the various dishes differ only by the arrangement of articles on the plate; the basic element is marinated herring.

Behind this last pane of glass, Wallas glimpses, one on top of the other, six replicas of the following composition: on a bed of toast, spread with margarine, is arranged a broad filet of herring with silvery-blue skin; to the right, five quarters of tomato, to the left, three slices of hard-boiled egg; set on top, at specific points; three black olives. Each tray also contains a fork and a knife. The circular slices of toast are certainly made for this purpose.

Wallas drops his token into the slot and presses a button. With a pleasant hum of its electric motor, the entire column of plates begins to descend; in the empty compartment at the bottom appears, then halts, the plate whose owner he has become. He removes it and the napkin that accompanies it and sets them both down on a free table. After having performed the same operation to obtain a slice of the same toast, accompanied this time by cheese, and once again for a glass of beer, he begins to cut up his meal into little cubes.

A quarter of tomato that is quite faultless, cut up by the machine into a perfectly symmetrical fruit.

The peripheral flesh, compact, homogeneous, and a splendid chemical red, is of an even thickness between a strip of gleaming skin and the hollow where the yellow, graduated seeds appear in a row, kept in place by a thin layer of greenish jelly along a swelling of the heart. This heart, of a slightly grainy, faint pink, begins-toward the inner hollow-with a cluster of white veins, one of which extends toward the seeds-somewhat uncertainly.

Above, a scarcely perceptible accident has occurred: a corner of the skin, stripped back from the flesh for a fraction of an inch, is slightly raised.

At the next table, three men are standing, three railroad workmen. In front of them, the entire table top is covered by six plates and three glasses of beer.

All three are cutting little cubes out of three disks of toast with cheese on them. The other three plates each contain an example of the herring-tomato-hard-boiled egg-olives arrangement of which Wallas also possesses a replica. The three men, aside from their identical uniforms, are the same height and are equally heavy; they also have more or less similar faces.

They eat in silence, with quick, precise gestures.

When they have finished their cheese, they each drink half of their glass of beer. A short conversation begins:

“What time did you say it happened?”

“It must have been around eight, eight-thirty.”

“And there was no one there then? That can’t be-he told me himself…”

“He said what he wanted you to believe.”

After having redistributed the plates on the table, they begin the second dish. But after a moment’s pause, the man who has spoken first stops eating to conclude:

“It’s as unlikely in the one case as in the other.”

After this, they stop talking, absorbed by their arduous problem of cutting.

Wallas feels a disagreeable sensation in the region of his stomach. He has eaten too fast. He now forces himself to continue more slowly. He must take something hot to drink, otherwise he might have pains in his stomach all afternoon. When he leaves this place, he will drink a cup of coffee somewhere where he can sit down.

When the railroad workmen have finished their second plateful of food, the man who has said what time it was resumes the discussion:

“In any case, it was last night.”

“It was? How do you know?”

“Don’t you read the papers?”

“Oh, you know, the newspapers!”

This remark is accompanied by a cynical gesture. All three have serious, but dispassionate faces; they are speaking in neutral, even tones, as if they were not paying too much attention to their words. Probably they are talking about something of slight interest-or about something already repeated over and over again.

“And what do you make of the letter?”

“In my opinion, that letter proves nothing at all.”

“Then nothing ever proves anything.”

With simultaneous gestures, they finish their glasses of beer. Then, in single file, they head for the door. Wallas can still hear:

“Well, we’ll see tomorrow, I hope.”

In a cafe that is the image of the one in the Rue des Arpenteurs-not very clean, but well heated-Wallas is drinking a cup of coffee.

He is vainly struggling to get rid of this cottony discomfort that keeps him from thinking about his case seriously. He must be catching some kind of grippe. Though he usually escapes minor ailments of this kind, it would have to be today that he doesn’t feel “up to snuff.” Yet he awoke feeling fine, as usual; it was during the morning that a kind of generalized discomfort gradually invaded his system. At first he ascribed it to hunger, then to the cold. But, even so, he has eaten and warmed himself with this coffee without managing to overcome his torpor.

Yet he needs all his wits about him if he wants to come to any conclusion; for up to now, though luck has been with him to a certain extent, he hasn’t made much progress. Yet it is of the greatest importance to his future that he give evidence at this time of lucidity and skill.

When he started to work at the Bureau of Investigation, some months ago, his chiefs did not conceal from him that he was being hired on probation, and that the job he would ultimately be given would depend in particular on the successes he achieved. This crime is the first important case he has been given. Of course he is not the only man to be concerned with it: other people, other services too, whose very existence he doesn’t know a thing about, are working on the same case; but since he has been given his opportunity, he should expend all his zeal upon it.

The first contact with Fabius was not very encouraging. Wallas came from another division of the ministry, where he was very well thought of; he had been offered this transfer to replace a man who had fallen critically ill.

“So you want to work in the Bureau of Investigation…”

Fabius is talking. He examines the new recruit dubiously, obviously apprehensive that he will not be equal to his job.

“It’s difficult work,” he begins, his tone severe.

“I know it is, Monsieur,” Wallas answers, “but I’ll do…”

“Difficult and disappointing.”

He speaks slowly and hesitantly, without letting himself be distracted by Wallas’ answers, which he seems, moreover, not to hear.

“Come over here, we’ll have a look.”

Out of his desk drawer, he takes a curious instrument that looks like a combination of calipers and a protractor. Wallas approaches and bends his head forward, to permit Fabius to take the customary measurements of his forehead. This is a regulation formality. Wallas knows that; he has already taken his own approximate measurements with a tape-measure: he is slightly over the compulsory square centimeters.

“One hundred-fourteen… Forty-three.”

Fabius takes a slip of paper to make the calculation.

“Now let’s see. One hundred-fourteen multiplied by forty-three. Three times four, twelve; three times one, three, and one makes four; three times one, three. Four times four, sixteen; four times one, four and one makes five; four times one, four. Two; six and four, ten: zero; five and three, eight, and one makes nine; four. Four thousand nine hundred and two… That’s not so good, young man.”

Fabius stares at him mournfully, shaking his head.

“But Monsieur,” Wallas protests politely, “I made the calculation myself and…”

“Four thousand nine hundred and two. Forty-nine square centimeters of frontal surface; you have to have at least fifty, you know.”

“But Monsieur, I…”

“Well, since you’ve come recommended, I’m going to hire you-on probation… Maybe some good hard work will help you gain a few millimeters. We’ll decide about that after your first important case.”

Suddenly in a hurry, Fabius takes from his desk a rubber stamp which he first presses on an ink pad, and afterward nervously taps on his new man’s transfer sheet; then, with the same automatic gesture, he vigorously adds a second stamp right in the middle of Wallas’ forehead, shouting:

“Ready for service!”

Wallas wakes up with a start. His forehead has just bumped against the edge of the table. He straightens up and drinks the rest of his cold coffee with disgust.

Having examined the check stuck under the saucer by the waiter, he stands up and tosses a coin on the counter as he passes. He goes out without waiting for his change. “For service” as he was told by…

“Well, Monsieur, did you find your post office?”

Wallas turns around. Still under the effect of his brief somnolence, he has not noticed the woman in an apron who is washing the window.

“Yes, I did; thank you.”

It is the woman with the broom who was washing the sidewalk this morning-in this very place.

“And it was open?”

“No, not until eight.”

“Then you should have listened to me! The one in the Rue Jonas was just as good.”

“Yes, I suppose so. I didn’t mind the walk, though,” Wallas answers as he leaves.

On his way to the Rue Jonas, he considers the best way to obtain information about the man in the torn raincoat. Despite his reluctance and Fabius ^ advice, it will be necessary for him to reveal his profession: it is impossible to start up a conversation with all six employees, one after the other, on some ordinary excuse as though by chance. It would therefore be best to ask the postmaster to call his staff together for a brief conference. Wallas will give the description of the man, who must have come in last night between five-thirty and six-unfortunately a busy time. (According to the statements-which agree on this point-of Madame Bax and the drunk, the scene at the fence occurred at nightfall, that is, around five o’clock.)

The hat, the raincoat, the approximate height, the general manner…He does not know much that’s very exact. Should he add that the man looks like himself? This may disturb the witnesses to no purpose, for this resemblance is quite problematical-and, in any case, subjective.

The employees are all in their places now, though the electric clock indicates only one-thirty. Wallas assumes a preoccupied expression and walks past the windows while examining the signs above them:

“Postage Prepaid. Stamps in Sheets. Surcharges. Parcel Post. Air Mail.”

“Parcel Post. Stamps. Registered Letters. Special Delivery. Registered Letters and Packages.”

“Stamps. Money Orders: Postal Orders, Checks, International Money Orders.”

“Savings Bank. Pension Coupons. Pensions and Retirement. Stamps. Money Orders Cashed.”

“Telegrams. Telegraph Money Orders Sent and Cashed. Telephone Payments and Surcharges.”

“Telegrams. Pneumatic Correspondence. Poste Restante. Stamps.”

Behind the window, the girl raises her head and looks at him. She smiles and says as she turns around toward a set of pigeonholes on the wall:

“There’s a letter for you.”

As she looks through the packet of envelopes she has just taken out of one of the pigeonholes, she adds: “I didn’t recognize you right away with that overcoat.”

“It’s because it’s not as warm today,” Wallas says.

“Winter’s coming now,” the young woman answers.

Just as she is about to give him the letter, she asks with a sudden and satirical respect for the regulations:

“Do you have your card, Monsieur?”

Wallas thrusts his hand into the inside pocket of his overcoat. The registration card is not there, of course; he will explain “orgetting it by the fact that he has changed his clothes. But le does not have time to act out this little comedy.

“You know you gave it in last night,” she says. “I shouldn’t 3e giving you any mail any more, since you aren’t registered here any more; but since the box hasn’t been bought by anyone else yet, it doesn’t matter.”

She hands him a crumpled envelope: “Monsieur Andre WS. Post Office 5, 2 Rue Jonas. No. 326 D.” The word “Pneumatic” is written in the left corner.

“Has it been here long?” Wallas asks.

“Just after you came in, this morning. It must have been quarter to twelve, or twelve. You see, you were right to come back, in spite of what you told me. There isn’t even any address on the back to forward it to. I wouldn’t have known what to do with it.”

“It was sent at ten-forty,” Wallas remarks, examining the postmarks.

“Ten-forty?…You should have had it this morning. There was probably some delay in sending it. You were right to stop by again.”

“Oh,” Wallas says, “it can’t be very important.”