The Tenant (17 page)

It would be far wiser to do nothing through official channels.

He left the hotel, walking close in the shadow of the walls, and began a circuit of all of the shadiest-looking bars in the neighborhood. In every one of them, he almost succeeded in forcing himself to ask the barman if he had a pistol he would sell him, but in the end he didn’t dare. He paid his check hurriedly, slunk out like a thief, and made a new attempt in the café next door or across the street. In the early afternoon, he gave up. He was slightly drunk, because he had been drinking some kind of alcohol in every place he went into, trying to achieve the air of a man accustomed to this sort of thing. He had eaten nothing in the past twenty-four hours, and the alcohol had gone promptly to his head.

As a last resource, he decided to buy a toy pistol. He had heard that some of these children’s playthings could do a great deal of damage. There were constant stories in the newspapers to prove it. He remembered one that told about a little boy who had been blinded by just such a toy. If that kind of result could be obtained by accident, it should be a simple matter for him to do better. The saleswoman in the department store explained the workings of the little pistol to him. He tossed aside the box it came in and slipped it in his pocket. The saleswoman watched him leave, smiling and shaking her head indulgently.

He felt greatly reassured by the presence of the weapon. He held his hand tight against his pocket, feeling its form molded to his palm through the cloth. He wanted to take it apart, and also to try it out, at once, but he could hardly do this in a public street, since other people might not realize that it was just a toy. He had to get back to the hotel, as quickly as possible.

The sound of shouting brought him suddenly back to reality. He sensed that some kind of danger was threatening him, and thrust his hand into his pocket, but had no time to withdraw the pistol. The shock of impact threw him several feet. He felt the heat of the radiator grill against his body, but the car had stopped in time.

It was a big American car, though not very new. The chromework was tarnished, one of the headlights was broken, the paint was flaking off in spots, and one of the fenders was newly dented.

“That must have happened when it hit me,” Trelkovsky thought. “I just hope there won’t be any trouble about it.”

He wanted to laugh, but the effort hurt too much.

People were running up from every direction, pushing and shoving in a circle around him. They had not yet dared touch him, but it doubtless wouldn’t be long before they did. They were avid for details on the exact extent of the damage. Trelkovsky was glad he had remembered to wash his feet. That would spare him embarrassment when they took him to the hospital. A man was pushing his way determinedly through the crowd.

“I’m a doctor,” he called. “Let me pass. Get out of the way, will you, he needs air.”

Trelkovsky kept his teeth tightly clenched while someone examined him cautiously. The doctor was trying to get him to speak.

“Are you in pain?” he kept asking. “Can you hear me? Where does it hurt? Can’t you talk?”

Why should he bother to talk? It was delightful not to have to answer when someone spoke to you. And besides, he was completely amorphous, incapable of the smallest effort.

He contented himself with waiting to see what happened next, not even feeling curious about it. It was all something of no concern to him. His head was turned so that he could see the car that had struck him, and suddenly a loud groan escaped his lips. He had recognized the man who still sat motionless behind the steering wheel. It was one of the neighbors.

“He’s badly hurt,” someone cried.

“Did you hear the way he groaned?”

“He’ll have to be moved someplace. He can’t stay here.”

“There’s a pharmacy right over there . . .”

Some volunteers seized Trelkovsky by the arms and legs, to carry him to the pharmacy. Two policemen had joined the doctor and were walking with him at the head of the little procession. They laid him out on the prescription counter, hastily swept clean of its normal contents.

“Are you in pain?” the doctor repeated.

He did not answer. He was too preoccupied with the neighbor, who had followed the rest of the group into the store. He saw him go up to one of the policemen and begin talking to him in a confidential murmur.

By this time, the doctor had undertaken a more thorough examination. He straightened up at last, apparently deciding to make public his conclusions.

“You were very lucky,” he said. “There’s nothing broken. Not even a sprained ankle. All you have, in fact, is a few scratches, and those will be gone in a couple of days. We can take care of them right now. But it was a severe shock; you’ll have to stay at home and rest for a while before you’re completely recovered.”

With the help of the pharmacist, he applied Mercurochrome and bits of adhesive plaster to Trelkovsky, and then said, “Naturally, it would be better if you had some X rays taken, but that isn’t urgent. The best thing at the moment is just for you to get as much rest as possible. Where do you live?”

Trelkovsky was terrified. What could he say? But the neighbor spared him the necessity of answering.

“Monsieur lives in the same building I do,” he said. “The least I can do for him is to drive him home.”

Trelkovsky attempted to sit up and flee, but a score of hands immediately held him back. He went on struggling, but it was useless.

“No,” he begged. “No, I don’t want to go back there with him.”

The man smiled down at him as if he were a naughty child. “Oh, come now,” he said. “I’m responsible for what happened to you, and I know it. It’s only natural that I should try to make amends. I’ll drive you home, and later, when you’re better, we can come to some agreement about the damages.”

He turned back to the policeman with whom he had been talking earlier. “You won’t be needing me any more, officer? You have my name and address?”

The policeman nodded. “You can leave, monsieur. You’ll be asked to come in later. And you’ll take the responsibility for getting monsieur home?”

“Of course—if you’ll just help me to carry him . . .”

Trelkovsky began struggling again. “No,” he screamed. “Don’t let him take me away! You haven’t even taken
my
name and address!”

“Yes, we have,” the policeman said. “Monsieur was kind enough to give them to me.”

“He’s a murderer! He wants to kill me!”

“It’s the shock,” someone murmured sympathetically.

“He needs sleep,” the doctor said. “I’ll give him an injection.”

“No!” Trelkovsky shouted. “No injections! No shots! They’re going to kill me! You’ve got to stop them; you’ve got to help me!”

He burst into tears, and his voice trailed off to a pleading whimper. “Please—help me. Take me anywhere, anywhere at all, but don’t let them kill me . . .”

They gave him the injection. He felt himself being carried off by men who walked very quickly. He was sleepy. The injection, of course. He wanted to protest, but he had to concentrate all of his strength on resisting the impulse to sleep. He was in the car. It was beginning to move.

By an enormous effort of will, he succeeded in not falling asleep. It was as if he were clinging by one hand to the last rung on the ladder of consciousness. The automobile was picking up speed. He could make out the driver’s back through the fog that clouded his mind.

And then he thought of the pistol.

He turned over slowly, to free the side pocket in which he had kept it. His hand was trembling, but it seized the weapon firmly. He placed its muzzle against the back of the neighbor’s neck.

“Stop this car immediately. I am armed.”

The man glanced uneasily at the rear-view mirror, and then burst out laughing.

“Who do you think you could frighten with that?” he said. “Is it a present for some child?”

Trelkovsky pulled frantically at the trigger. Once, twice, then simply holding it back. The driver’s laughter was so loud in the muffled interior of the car that it seemed inhuman. The tiny bullets from the pistol slapped at his neck as harmlessly as flies, then bounced off and scattered across the floor.

“All right—that’s enough,” the driver croaked. “You might make me die laughing.”

Trelkovsky hurled the pistol at the glass of the windshield. It shattered into little bits of plastic. The driver turned around and clucked sarcastically.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “You can buy yourself another one.”

The car slowed down and stopped before the door of the building. The neighbor got out and slammed the door behind him. Two of the other neighbors joined him, and they began a whispered discussion. Trelkovsky just lay in the back of the car, resigned to his fate, awaiting their decision. Were they going to execute him immediately? Somehow, it didn’t seem probable.

He realized then that the door on the other side of the car was not locked, and almost before he knew what he was doing he had seized the handle and leaped into the street. He fell into the arms of a fourth neighbor, who had no trouble mastering him in his semi-drugged condition.

“We’re going to carry you up to your apartment,” the man told him ironically. “You’ll be able to rest there; and you need a lot of rest. Just lean on me. Don’t worry about it—I like to be helpful.”

“Let go of me,” Trelkovsky shouted. “Let go of me! Help! Help . . .”

A heavy hand laid hard across the side of his face was the only answer he received.

The little group of neighbors now included Monsieur Zy and the concierge. They were all watching him, their eyes gleaming wickedly, making no attempt to conceal their delight.

“But I don’t want to go up to my apartment,” Trelkovsky said feebly. “I’ll give you anything I have, anything you want . . . Just let me go . . .”

The man who was holding him shook his head. “Impossible,” he said. “You’re going to go quietly upstairs to your apartment. Without making any trouble, or I warn you . . . You know what the doctor said—you need rest, and you’re going to get it. You’ll see; it will do you good. Now come on, let’s go up.”

He took Trelkovsky’s arm in a thoroughly professional grip, twisted it behind his back and began to press upward.

“Now, you see, you’re already much calmer! You’re beginning to understand. That’s fine, just go on like that . . . Again, again . . . One step for Mama, one for Papa, go on . . .”

Step by step Trelkovsky was forced across the threshold, through the entrance hall past the arch that led to the courtyard, and up the steps. The man behind him was still mocking him.

“You didn’t want to come with me, eh? Why not? Don’t you like your apartment any more? Have you found something else? I thought apartments were scarce these days. But perhaps you made some kind of fake exchange. Well—that’s none of my business, after all.”

With a final shove, he sent Trelkovsky sprawling on the floor of the front room. The door slammed, and a key turned twice in the lock.

It would undoubtedly be tonight.

17
The Preperations

T
relkovsky struggled painfully to his feet. Every bone and muscle in his body ached. His tongue had discovered a broken tooth and was mechanically attempting to polish its craggy edges. He spit out a slender stream of blood, which kept growing longer and longer as he pushed himself up, stretching from his mouth to the floor, becoming no more than a thread, an imaginary line which refused to break.

The chest of drawers, the armoire, the chairs were all exactly as he had left them at the time of his precipitate flight. He could feel the air coming through the broken windowpanes. The neighbors had not thought to board them up. They had made a mistake. He dragged himself to the window and inhaled deeply, preparing to scream for help.

He didn’t have the time to do it. A torrent of music flooded from every window in the building. The radios had all been turned to maximum volume, and all were playing the Beethoven Ninth Symphony. He screamed and shouted, but his ineffectual appeals were drowned in the thunder of music. He put his hands to his ears, trying at least to shut out this music he detested so, but even this was in vain. The wind through the courtyard swept it in through the broken panes, filling every corner of the room.

The Ninth Symphony exploded all around him, bursting with a stupid glee, like the march of the executioners in a comic opera. Nine hundred singers and musicians were exulting in Trelkovsky’s approaching death. The neighbors had doubtless considered it a delicate tribute to the memory of Simone Choule, who had been such an admirer of Beethoven. He was swept by a tidal wave of futile rage, and began racing about the apartment, systematically destroying everything that still remained of Simone Choule. First the letters and the books. He tore them apart, reducing all these things that had cast the spell on him to little shreds of paper, scattered them on the floor, and then trampled on them. The impotent fury of an animal caught in a trap seized him by the throat, and he could scarcely breathe. He began hiccuping violently. He went to look for the two incisor teeth in the hole in the wall, but when he got them out and looked at them he saw that they were now two canine teeth. He regarded them for a moment in horror, and then ran back to the window and hurled them out. But as he bent down to throw them as far from him as possible, his attention was caught by the spectacle taking place in the toilet on the other side of the courtyard.

A woman he had never seen before had just come in. She knelt down on the tile floor in front of the bowl, and her head disappeared into its filthy circle. What was she doing? She lifted her head, and there was an expression of utter bestiality on her face. She stared straight at Trelkovsky and smiled repulsively. Then, without taking her eyes from his, she plunged her hand into the toilet bowl, withdrew it filled with excrement, and deliberately smeared it across her face. Other women came into the little room, and they all went through the same procedure. When there were thirty or so hideously daubed and smeared women crowded into the toilet, a black curtain was drawn across the oval window and he could see nothing more.