The books were arranged in alphabetical order, but as the bookseller didn’t know his alphabet very well, Chick found the Heartre section between T and B. He took out his magnifying glass and started to study the bindings. In a copy of Breathing and Stuffiness, the famous critical study of the effects of the common cold, he had soon unearthed a highly interesting fingerprint. Feverishly he took from his coat-pocket a little box in which, besides a camel-hair brush, he kept some fingerprint powder and a copy of The Model Blood-Hound’s Manual by Cardinal Yesman. He worked with great care, making comparisons with a sheet that he took from his wallet. He stopped, breathless. It was the print of Heartre’s left index finger which until then, had never been found by anybody anywhere except on his old pipes.
Clasping the precious find to his heart, he rushed back to the bookseller.
‘How much is this?’
The bookseller looked at the book and chuckled. ‘So you’ve found it! …’
‘What’s so extraordinary about it?’ asked Chick, pretending he didn’t know.
‘Ho!’ spluttered the bookseller, opening his mouth and letting his pipe fall and fizzle out in the spittoon.
He came out with a forty-four-letter word and rubbed his hands together, delighted that he wouldn’t have to suck that unspeakable horror any more.
‘I’d like to know …’ insisted Chick.
His heart almost burst out of his body and began to beat loudly against his ribs with the wild rhythm of jungle drums.
‘Now, now, now …’ said the bookseller, who couldn’t stop laughing and was rolling on the floor. ‘You’re a real jester! …’
‘Listen,’ said Chick, beginning to feel very awkward, ‘what are you talking about? …’
‘When I think,’ said the bookseller, ‘that to get that fingerprint I had to offer him my pipe of peace half-a-dozen times and learn the same number of conjuring tricks so that I could swop it for another edition when he wasn’t looking.’
‘Skip it,’ said Chick. ‘Since you know all about it, how much d’you want for it?’
‘It’s not very expensive,’ said the bookseller, ‘but I’ve got something much better. Wait a moment.’
He got up, disappeared behind a low partition that cut the bookshop in two, scrambled around in something and was back in a flash.
‘Here we are,’ he said, flinging a pair of trousers on the counter.
‘What’s this?’ gasped Chick, almost afraid of what he might hear.
A delicious thrill ran through his whole body.
‘A pair of Heartre’s trousers! …’ announced the bookseller with pride.
‘How did you get them?’ asked Chick, ecstatic.
‘It was while he was giving a lecture …’ explained the bookseller. ‘Never even noticed. There are some holes burnt by his pipe, you know …’
‘I’ll take them,’ said Chick.
‘What?’ asked the bookseller … ‘Because I’ve got something else …’
Chick put his hand on his chest. It was impossible for him to hold in his heartbeats any longer and he let them out to go crazy for a while.
‘Here we are …’ said the bookseller again.
It was a pipe. On the stem Chick could easily recognize marks made by Heartre’s teeth.
‘How much?’ said Chick.
‘You know,’ said the bookseller, ‘that he’s working on an Encyclopedia of Nausea in twenty volumes at the moment. I’m going to get the manuscripts …’
‘But I’ll never be able to …’ said Chick, bumping down to earth again, crushed, dumbfounded and with a sinking heart.
‘I couldn’t care less about that!’ said the bookseller.
‘How much for these three?’ asked Chick.
‘A thousand doublezoons,’ said the bookseller, ‘and that’s my last offer. I refused one thousand two hundred yesterday. I’m only doing this for you because you look as if you’ll look after them …’
Chick pulled out his wallet. His face was horribly pale.
43
‘We’ve given up using a tablecloth,’ said Colin, ‘as you can see.’
‘I’m not worried about that,’ said Chick. ‘But I don’t understand why the wood has grown all chipped and knotty like that …’
‘I don’t know why it is,’ said Colin, dreamily. ‘I don’t think we know how to clean it properly. It comes from the inside.’
‘And wasn’t this a woollen carpet before?’ asked Chick. ‘This one looks as if it’s made of cotton …’
‘It’s still the same one,’ said Colin. ‘I’m sure it’s not different.’
‘It’s funny,’ said Chick. ‘It seems as if the whole world is closing in on you in here!’
Nicholas brought in some greasy soup with chunks of toast submerged in it. He gave them very large helpings.
‘What’s this, Nicholas?’ asked Chick.
‘Ockseau with chopped noodles,’ replied Nicholas. ‘It’s smashing!’
‘Ah!’ said Chick, ‘did you get the recipe out of ffroydde?’
‘The hell I did!’ said Nicholas. ‘It came from Joe’s, ffroydde may be all right for the snobserver crowd … But just look at all the things he expects you to get hold of!’
‘But you’ve got everything you need,’ said Chick.
‘What?’ said Nicholas. ‘I’ve only got the gas and a fridgiplonk like everyone else. What d’you take us for?’
‘Oh … Forget it!’ said Chick.
He wriggled on his chair. He didn’t know how to continue a conversation of that kind.
‘Would you like some wine with it?’ asked Colin. ‘This is all I’ve got left in the cellar. It’s not too bad.’
Chick held out his glass.
‘Alyssum came to see Chloe a few days ago,’ said Colin, ‘but I didn’t see her. And yesterday Nicholas took Chloe up into the mountains.’
‘Yes,’ said Chick. ‘Alyssum told me.’
‘I had a letter from Professor Gnawknuckle,’ said Colin. ‘He’s asking for loads of money. But I think he’s a very good man.’
Colin’s head was aching. He had hoped that Chick was going to do all the talking, tell him stories, entertain him. But Chick seemed to be concentrating on something farther away, outside the window. Suddenly he got up and, taking a tape measure from his pocket, went to measure the window-frame.
‘I’ve got a feeling this is changing too,’ he said.
‘How can it be?’ said Colin scornfully.
‘It’s getting smaller,’ said Chick. ‘And so is the room …’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Colin. ‘That’s absolute nonsense …’
Chick didn’t answer. He took his notebook and pencil and jotted down some figures.
‘Did you find a job?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ said Colin. ‘But I’ve got an interview later on, and another one tomorrow.’
‘What sort of thing are you looking for?’ asked Chick. ‘Oh, anything!’ said Colin. ‘So long as I can get some money. Flowers are so expensive.’
‘They are,’ said Chick.
‘How are you getting on at work?’ said Colin. ‘I got a pal to take over from me,’ said Chick, ‘because I had so many other things to do …’
‘Did they take him on?’ asked Colin.
‘Yes, it all worked out perfectly. He could do my job backwards.’
‘So?’ asked Colin.
‘So when I wanted to go back,’ explained Chick, ‘they told me my pal was doing fine … But, if I wanted a new job, then they’d find something else for me, only the pay wouldn’t be so good.’
‘Your uncle can’t give you anything now,’ said Colin.
He did not even make his sentence into a question. It seemed obvious to him.
‘It would be rather hard for me to ask him for any,’ said Chick. ‘He’s dead.’
‘You never told me …’
‘It wasn’t madly interesting,’ murmured Chick.
Nicholas came back aga
in with a greasy pot in which three black sausages were fighting for their lives.
‘You’ll have to eat them like that,’ he said. ‘I can’t finish them off. They’re as hard as old boots and as tough as nails. I put some nitric acid in – that’s why they’re black – but it wasn’t powerful enough to do the trick.’
Colin managed to stick his fork into one of the sausages and it writhed as it gave out an unrhythmical death-rattle.
‘I’ve got one,’ he said. ‘You have a try, Chick!’
‘I am trying,’ said Chick, ‘but it’s not so easy!’
He sent a great splurt of grease flying across the table.
‘Hell!’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s good for the woodwork.’
Chick managed to help himself at last, and Nicholas carried away the third sausage on a stretcher.
‘I don’t know what’s going wrong,’ said Chick. ‘Did it used to be like this here before?’
‘No,’ confessed Colin. ‘Everything everywhere is changing, and I can’t do anything to stop it. It’s grown like some kind of leprosy since my doublezoons disappeared …’
‘Haven’t you got any left at all?’ asked Chick.
‘Hardly any,’ replied Colin. ‘I paid for the mountains in advance and for the flowers too – because I don’t want Chloe to go short of anything that might help to get her better. But, apart from that, things aren’t too good in themselves.’
Chick had finished his sausage.
‘Come and look at the kitchen corridor!’ said Colin.
‘I’m right behind you,’ said Chick.
Through the panes on each side you could just pick out a wan, tarnished sun. Their centres were smothered with black spots. A few skimpy handfuls of rays had got through into the corridor but, as soon as they touched the ceramic tiles that were once so brilliant, they turned to liquid and trickled away into long damp stains. A smell like locked cellars hovered over the walls. In one of the corners the mouse with black whiskers had built a nest on stilts for itself. It could no longer play with the golden rays on the floor like it used to. It was shuddering on a pile of remnants of silk and taffeta, and the damp was causing its long whiskers to cling together. After a supermuscular effort it had managed to scratch some of the tiles to make them shine again, but the task was too mighty for its tiny paws, and now it just stayed in its corner, trembling and worn out.
‘Aren’t the radiators working?’ asked Chick, pulling up the collar of his jacket.
‘Of course they are,’ said Colin. ‘They’re switched on all day long, but nothing happens. This is the spot where it all started …’
‘What a nuisance,’ said Chick. ‘You ought to get the builders in.’
‘They’ve been,’ said Colin, ‘and they’ve been laid up ever since.’
‘Oh!’ said Chick. ‘They’ll be all right in a day or two.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Colin. ‘Come on, let’s go and finish our lunch with Nicholas.’
They went into the kitchen. There too the room had grown smaller. Nicholas, sitting at a bare little table, was reading a book and munching at something.
‘Look here, Nicholas …’ said Colin.
‘All right,’ said Nicholas. ‘I was just going to bring your afters in.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Colin. ‘We’re going to eat it here. No, it was something else. Nicholas, you wouldn’t like me to give you the sack, would you?’
‘Not really,’ said Nicholas.
‘Well, I think I might have to,’ said Colin. ‘You’re going to seed here. You’ve grown ten years older in a week.’
‘Seven years older,’ Nicholas corrected him.
‘I don’t like seeing you like this. It’s not doing you any good being here. It’s the atmosphere.’
‘But it isn’t affecting you,’ said Nicholas.
‘It’s not the same for me,’ said Colin. ‘I’ve got to get Chloe better and nothing else matters to me, so it doesn’t have any effect. How’s your club?’
‘Never go there these days …’ said Nicholas.
‘I can’t take any more of this,’ repeated Colin. ‘The High-Pottinuices are looking for a cook and I’ve said you’ll go. But first I’d like you to tell me that you’d like to go there.’
‘I wouldn’t,’ said Nicholas.
‘Well,’ said Colin, ‘you’re going to go there, whether you like it or not.’
‘That’s a rotten thing to do to anybody,’ said Nicholas. ‘I feel like a rat buggering off from the sinking ship.’
‘Not at all,’ said Colin. ‘You must go. You know how sad it makes me …’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Nicholas. He closed his book and put down his head in his arms on the table.
‘You’ve got nothing to be sad about,’ said Colin.
‘I’m not sad,’ groaned Nicholas.
He looked up. Great tears of silence were in his eyes.
‘I’m a nut,’ he said.
‘You’re a great pal, Nicholas,’ said Colin.
‘No, I’m not,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’d like to crawl away inside a shell. Then I’d hear nothing but the sea. And nobody would find me and come and disturb me …’
44
Colin went up the stairs. They were gloomily lit by unblinkingly leaden leaded windows. He reached the first floor and found a black door cut into a cold stone wall. Without ringing he went in, filled up a form, gave it to a commissionaire who emptied it, screwed it into a little ball, fed it into the mouth of a ravenous cannon and took careful aim at the inquiry desk in the partition facing him. He ignited the gunpowder, closed his right ear with his left hand, and fired. Then he sat down to recharge his weapon in preparation for the next caller.
Colin stood there until a peal of bells summoned the commissionaire to show him into the chairman’s office.
He followed the man along a long winding, rambling passage whose levels went up and down with every step they took. Although the walls were perpendicular to the floors, they twisted and turned with them at each corner, and he had to go at full speed if he wanted to stay upright. Before he knew what had happened, he was standing in front of the chairman’s desk. Obediently he sat down in a restive armchair that reared and pranced between his legs and only stood still when its master made an imperative gesture.
‘Well? …’ said the chairman.
‘Well. Here I am! …’ said Colin.
‘What do you do?’ asked the chairman.
‘I’ve mastered the rudiments …’ said Colin.
‘What I mean,’ said the chairman, ‘is how do you spend your time?’
‘I spend the best part of my time,’ said Colin, ‘in making things worse.’
‘Why?’ asked the chairman, in a deteriorated tone.
‘Because the best never makes things better,’ said Colin.
‘Ahem … Hum! …’ murmured the director. ‘You know the kind of job we are offering?’
‘No,’ said Colin.
‘Neither do I …’ said the chairman. ‘I’ll have to ask my managing director. But you don’t look as if you would be suitable …’
‘Why not?’ This time it was Colin who asked the question.
‘I don’t know …’ said the chairman.
He seemed nervous and pushed his armchair back a little.
‘Don’t come any closer! …’ he snapped.
‘But … I didn’t move …’ said Colin.
‘No … No …’ muttered the chairman. ‘That’s what they all say … And then …’
He leaned forward provocatively without taking his eyes off Colin, and picked up his telephone from the desk, shaking it violently.
‘Hello! …’ he shouted. ‘Come in here immediately!’
He put back the instrument and continued contemplating Colin suspiciously.
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-one …’ said Colin.
‘I thought as much …’
said his interlocutor.
Somebody knocked at the door.
‘Come in!’ shouted the chairman, and his expression relaxed again.
A man, ravaged by the continual absorption of paper dust and whose bronchia must have been overflowing with reconstituted cellulose paste, came into the room with a file under his arm.
‘You’ve broken a chair,’ said the chairman.
‘Yes,’ said the managing director.
He put the file on the table.
‘It can be repaired, you know …’
He turned to Colin.
‘Do you know how to mend chairs? …’
‘I think so …’ said Colin, taken by surprise. ‘It isn’t very difficult, is it?’
‘I’ve used up three pots of office glue so far,’ said the managing director, ‘and haven’t managed it yet.’
‘You’ll pay for them,’ yelled the chairman. ‘I’ll deduct the cost of them from your salary …’
‘I’ve already taken it from my secretary’s,’ said the managing director. ‘Don’t worry, chief.’
‘Were you looking for somebody to mend chairs?’ asked Colin timidly.
‘Of course!’ said the chairman. ‘We must have been.’
‘I don’t remember very clearly,’ said the managing director. ‘But you can’t mend a chair …’
‘Why not?’ said Colin.
‘Simply because you can’t,’ said the managing director.
‘I wonder how you realized that?’ said the chairman.
‘Mainly,’ said the managing director, ‘because these chairs cannot be mended and, in particular, because he doesn’t give me the impression of being able to mend a chair.’
‘But what has a chair got to do with an office job?’ said Colin.
‘Do you sit on the floor when you work?’ sneered the chairman.
‘You can’t work very often if you do,’ improved the managing director.
‘It’s perfectly obvious,’ said the chairman, ‘that you’re an idler! …’
‘That’s it … An idler …’ approved the managing director.
‘We could never,’ concluded the chairman, ‘under any circumstances, take on a lazy-bones! …’