The Erasers

3

You don’t die so fast from a flesh wound in the arm. Come off it! The manager shrugs his massive shoulders in a gesture of denial tempered with indifference: they can write whatever they want, but they won’t make him believe that, with their stories made up on purpose to fool people.

“Tuesday, October 27.-A daring burglar made his way at nightfall yesterday into the residence of M. Daniel Dupont, number 2 Rue des Arpenteurs. Caught red-handed by the owner, the criminal, as he escaped, fired his revolver several times at M. Dupont…”

The old woman arrived all out of breath. It was just before eight o’clock; the cafe was empty. No, the drunk was still here, half asleep in his corner; there was no one left for him to pester with his riddles: the others had finally all gone home to eat. The old woman asked if she could use the telephone. Of course she could; the manager pointed to where it was, on the wall. She was holding a sheet of paper which she looked at to dial her number while she went on talking: there was no way of calling from her house, something wrong with the phone since Saturday. “Home” was the little house at the corner, with a hedge around it. It was hard to say just whom she was speaking to. Probably to him, since the drunk obviously took no interest in the matter, but she seemed to be trying to reach a wider audience beyond, like a crowd in a public square; or else trying to affect something deeper in him than the sense of hearing. Since Saturday, and no one had come to fix it yet.

“Hello! Doctor Juard, please?”

She was shouting even louder than when she was telling her misfortunes.

“The doctor has to come right away. Someone’s hurt. Right away, you hear? Someone’s hurt! Hello! You hear?…”

In any case, she herself did not seem to be hearing very well. Finally she handed him the extra earphone and he had to report what the clinic was saying to her. Probably deaf. She followed the words on his lips when he spoke.

“Monsieur Daniel Dupont, two Rue des Arpenteurs. The doctor knows.”

Her eyes questioned him.

“All right. He’s coming.”

She went on talking as fast as ever while she paid for the call. She did not seem hysterical, only a little overexcited. When he left the table Monsieur Dupont had found a criminal in his study-some people have their nerve-in his study which he had just left; where the light had even been left on. What did he want, anyway? To steal books? Her employer had had just time enough to dash into the next room where his revolver was; his arm had only been grazed by a bullet. But when he had come back into the hallway, the criminal had already escaped. And she had heard nothing, seen nothing, that was the worst! How had he even got in? Some people have their nerve. “A daring burglar made his way…” The phone had not been working since Saturday. And she had taken the trouble to go to the office, so someone would come to take care of it; of course no one had come. Sunday, all right, that was a holiday-and still, there should have been some kind of emergency repair service for such cases. Besides, if the repair service was any good, someone would have come right away. As a matter of fact Monsieur Dupont had waited all Saturday afternoon for an important call; and he did not even know if he could receive outside calls, since the phone had not rung since Friday…

A plan of general reform of the telephone and telegraph system. Article one: a permanent repair service for emergency cases. No. Sole Article: Monsieur Dupont’s telephone will be kept perpetually in perfect working order. Or more simply: everything will always work normally. And Saturday morning will stay quietly in its place, separated from the following Monday evening by sixty hours of sixty minutes each.

The old woman would have gone back at least as far as September if the drunk had not interrupted, awakened by her exclamations. He had been staring hard at her for a few minutes and took advantage of a moment’s silence to say:

“Say, grandma, do you know what’s the worst thing for a telephone lineman?”

She turned toward him.

“Listen, boy, there’s nothing for you to brag about.”

“No, grandma, that’s not it, I’m not bragging, not me! I’m asking if you know what’s the worst thing for a telephone lineman?”

He expressed himself formally, but with some difficulty.

“What’s he saying?”

The manager tapped his forehead in explanation.

“Oh! That’s it. These are strange times we’re living in, all the same. I’m not surprised things go so badly nowadays, at the telephone offices.”

Meanwhile Jeannette has lighted the stove and the cafe has filled up with smoke. The manager opens the street door. It’s cold outside. The sky is overcast. It looks as though it were going to snow.

He steps out onto the sidewalk and looks toward the parkway. The fence and the hedge of the corner house are in sight. At the canal’s edge, at the end of the bridge, a man is leaning on the railing, with his back to the street. What is he waiting for? A whale to pass? All that can be seen of him is a long shabby coat; like the one the man was wearing this morning. Maybe he’s waiting there for the other man to come back!

What does this story about the burglary mean? Was there a more serious wound the old woman did not know about? Or didn’t she want to say so? A burglar! It doesn’t make sense. Besides, what difference can it make to him anyway?

The manager picks up his paper again:

“…The victim, critically wounded and taken at once to a nearby clinic, died there without regaining consciousness. The police are investigating the identity of the murderer whose traces, up to now, have not been found.

“Daniel Dupont, croix de guerre, chevalier du Merite, was fifty-two years old. Formerly a professor at the School of Law, he was also the author of many works on political economy known for their original views, notably concerning the problem of the organization of production.”

Died without regaining consciousness. He hadn’t even lost consciousness. Another shrug. Flesh wound in the arm. Come off it! You don’t die so fast.