The Investigation

IV

THE SITUATION WAS GROWING ABSURD. He’d never had such a strange misadventure. He went so far as to rub his eyes and bite his lips in an effort to persuade himself that the events of the past few hours had not been just a nightmare.

But, no, there he was, all right, standing in front of that entrance that didn’t look a thing like an entrance, before the wall surrounding the Enterprise, which didn’t look like any other enterprise, next to a Guardhouse completely different from an ordinary guardhouse, standing there with chattering teeth, drenched to the bone, at ten o’clock in the evening — no, later — while the rain, no doubt with a view to increasing his amazement, routed the snow again and started hammering on his skull.

He hauled rather than carried his suitcase, which no longer contained only his clothes and other personal items; now there were stones in it, steel beams, chunks of cast iron, blocks of granite. Each of his steps was accompanied by a squelching sound, like the sound a sponge makes when you squeeze it. The sidewalks were turning into great swamps. He wouldn’t have been all that surprised if he’d suddenly been seized and dragged down by the deep current of some bottomless puddle. But all at once, a memory crossed his mind and rekindled his hope. He recalled a moment, during the course of his wandering, when he’d looked down the length of a street and spotted — on the right, he remembered it had been on the right, but what good was that piece of information going to do him? — in any case, he’d spotted an illuminated sign, and he believed (but here he abandoned the realm of certainty; this wasn’t a belief he’d stake his life on) that the sign was a hotel sign. He was sure there would be plenty of hotels on the periphery of the City, on its noisy edges, where freeway interchanges performed their function, purging the fast lanes of excessive traffic, bleeding arteries clogged with vehicles, separating destinies and lives. But at this hour, there was no question of his attempting to reach those conjectural hotels on foot, and in such weather. To begin with, what would be the right way for him to go? He hadn’t the least idea.

And to think, a very simple act could have saved him all this trouble: Had he thought to recharge his cell phone before leaving his apartment that morning, he’d already be asleep in a nice, warm bed, listening to the rain drumming on the roof of the hotel, which he would have found with no problem, simply by dialing for information. But the small, inert, useless object in his raincoat pocket — he could feel it now and then, when he passed his suitcase from one hand to the other — reminded him of his negligence and his stupidity.

What time could it be? He didn’t dare consult his watch again. He was exhausted and chilled through and through. He sneezed every three yards, and fluid ran from his nose like tepid water from a treacherous and badly closed faucet. He wasn’t going to be forced to sleep in the train station or on a bench, like a homeless person, was he? In any case, that was a moot point, because he remembered that train stations all over the country now chained up their doors at night, precisely to avoid being turned into dormitories; moreover, public benches installed during the last several years were designed in such a way that you couldn’t lie on them anymore.

He walked on at random; by now, nothing looked familiar. He crossed intersections, tramped past buildings, traversed neighborhoods of low-rise, detached houses with no light on in any window. Could it be that not a soul was awake in the entire City? The streets were empty of vehicles: no cars, no motorcycles, no bicycles. Nothing. It was as if a curfew were in force, and it forbade traffic of any kind.

The Waiter had told him the truth: The Enterprise was always with him. He could distinguish, near and far, the somber conglomeration of its facilities; seen through the streaks of freezing rain, the structures formed ramparts and high walls, sometimes crenellated, always thick and oppressive. And then there was the sound the Enterprise made, audible in spite of the raindrops striking the pavement: a noticeable, continuous, low whirring, like the sound a refrigerator makes when its door has been left open.

The Investigator felt old and discouraged, even though his Investigation hadn’t begun yet, even though nothing had actually begun. The rain doubled its force, as did the wind, which swept the streets methodically, exhaling a kind of earthy, fetid, glacial breath that just about finished him off. He’d been walking for … for how long, really? He didn’t have any idea, and now he was in a part of the City where there were no buildings. The sidewalks were lined by a concrete fence about ten feet high, on the top of which glittered innumerable pieces of broken glass set in cement. The narrow streets, which forked repeatedly, reinforced his unpleasant sensation that he’d become a kind of rodent, caught in an outsized trap. The monotonous and restrictive landscape completed his disorientation, but he kept moving. He had the curious impression that he was being observed by an invisible creature located somewhere very high above him and laughing heartily at the wretchedness of his state.