The Snail on the Slope Page 11

“I’m asking: Why you are here?” said the Director, turning unseeing eyes toward Peretz.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I want to leave.”

  “Your opinion of the forest. Briefly.”

  “The forest—it’s . . . I’ve always . . . I’m . . . afraid of it. And I love it.”

  “Your opinion of the Administration?”

  “There are lots of good people here, but—”

  “That’s enough.” The Director came up to Peretz, hugged him around the shoulders, and, looking into his eyes, said, “Listen, buddy! Quit it! How about we go out for drinks, huh? We’ll bring the secretary along—did you check out that broad? That’s no broad, that’s a garden of delights! ‘Open the coveted quart, boys! . . .’” he sang in a hoarse, strained voice. “Huh? Are we gonna open it? Quit it, I don’t like it. Got it? How about it?” He suddenly gave off an odor of alcohol and garlic salami; his eyes crossed. “We’ll take Brandskugel, my mon cher,” he continued, pressing Peretz to his chest. “The stories he tells, we won’t need any grub . . . You coming?”

  “We could, I guess,” Peretz said. “But I . . .”

  “You what?”

  “Monsieur Ahti, I—”

  “Cut it out! I’m no monsieur. I’m your comrade, get it? Your bosom buddy!”

  “Comrade Ahti, I came to ask you . . .”

  “Aaask away! Whatever your soul desires! Need money? Here you go! Don’t like someone? We’ll look into it! Well?”

  “N-No, I just want to leave. I can’t seem to figure out how to leave—I came here by accident, Comrade Ahti, and there’s no longer anything for me to do here. Please let me leave. No one wants to help me, and I’m asking you, in your capacity as director . . .”

  Ahti let go of Peretz, fixed his tie, and smiled drily. “You’re mistaken, Peretz,” he said. “I’m not the Director. I’m the Assistant Director of Human Resources. I apologize for keeping you. Please go through this door. The Director will see you.”

  He opened a low door at the back of his empty office in front of Peretz and gestured for him to come through. Peretz coughed, gave a distant nod, bent down, and squeezed into the next room. As he did so, he thought he felt a light smack on the rear. Then again, he probably just imagined it, or Monsieur Ahti may have been in too much of a hurry to close the door.

  The room he found himself in was a precise copy of the waiting room; even the secretary was a precise copy of the first secretary, except that she was reading a book titled The Sublimation of Genius. Just like before, gray-faced people were sitting in chairs and perusing magazines and newspapers. Professor Cockatoo was here, suffering from a bad case of nerves and compulsively scratching himself. Beatrice Wah was also in the room, holding the brown folder in her lap. However, the remaining visitors were strangers to him, and beneath The Heroic Feat of Forest Explorer Selivan, the single stern word SILENCE! flashed on and off at regular intervals. As a result, no one here was talking. Peretz carefully lowered himself onto the edge of a chair. Beatrice gave him a somewhat guarded but overall friendly smile.

  After a minute of strained silence, the bell rang, and the secretary put down her book and said, “Reverend Luke, you’re next.”

  Reverend Luke was awful to behold, and Peretz looked away. Never mind, he thought, closing his eyes. I can handle it. He remembered that rainy autumn evening when they brought Esther into the apartment, stabbed to death by a drunk hoodlum at the entrance to the building . . . and the neighbors hanging on his neck, and the glass crumbs in his mouth—he had bitten into a glass when they’d brought him water . . . Yes, he thought, the worst is behind me . . .

  Rapid scratching sounds caught his attention. He opened his eyes and looked around. One chair away from him, Professor Cockatoo was furiously scratching under his armpits with both hands. Like an ape.

  “What do you think, should we separate the boys from the girls?” Beatrice asked in a shaky whisper.

  “I don’t know,” Peretz answered caustically.

  “Integrated education does, of course, have its advantages,” Beatrice continued mumbling, “but this is a special case . . . My God!” she suddenly whined. “Is he really going to fire me? Where would I go? I’ve already been fired everywhere else, I don’t have a single decent pair of shoes left. All my pantyhose have runs, my powder’s gone lumpy . . .”

  The secretary put down her book and said sternly, “Don’t get distracted.”

  Beatrice froze in fear. Then the low door opened and a man with a shaved head squeezed into the waiting room. “Is there a Peretz here?” he boomed.

  “I’m Peretz,” Peretz said, leaping up.

  “Gather your things and go! Your ride is leaving in ten minutes—get a move on!”

  “What ride? Why?”

  “You’re Peretz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you want to leave or not?”

  “I did, but—”

  “Well, up to you,” the man barked irately. “My job was to tell you.”

  He disappeared and the door slammed shut. Peretz rushed after him.

  “Get back!” the secretary yelled, and several hands grabbed his clothes. Peretz desperately tried to break free; his jacket started to rip.

  “But my ride is over there!” he groaned.

  “Have you gone insane!” said the irritated secretary. “Why are you breaking down the door? Here’s a door, it says EXIT, and where are you going?”

  Firm hands directed Peretz toward the EXIT sign. There turned out to be a spacious polygonal hall behind the door, with many other doors leading out of it, and he started darting around, trying them one by one.

  Bright sunlight, sterile white walls, people in white coats. A naked back smeared with iodine. The smell of medicine. Not it.

  Darkness, the crackling of a film projector. A person on-screen being pulled in two different directions by his ears. White blobs of faces turned toward him in displeasure. “The door! Close the door!” Not it either . . .

  Peretz crossed the hall, slipping and sliding on the polished wood floor.

  The smell of a bakery, a short line of people holding bags. Cakes, pastries, and gleaming buttermilk bottles in a glass case.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” shouted Peretz. “Where’s the exit?”

  “Exit from where?” asked the stout clerk in a chef’s hat.

  “From here . . .”

  “It’s the door you’re standing in.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” a frail old man in line told the clerk. “We have one joker around here, all he does is hold up the line . . . Do your job, don’t pay attention.”

  “I’m not joking,” said Peretz. “My ride is about to leave.”

  “No, it’s not him,” said the fair-minded old man. “That one always asks about the lavatory. Where did you say your ride was, sir?”

  “Out on the street.”

  “Which street?” the clerk asked. “There are lots of streets.”

  “I don’t care which street, I just need to go outside!”

  “No,” said the astute old man. “It’s still the same guy. He just has a new routine. Don’t pay attention to him.”

  Peretz looked around in despair, leaped back into the hall, and tried the next door. It was locked. A gruff voice inquired, “Who’s there?”

  “I need to get out!” Peretz shouted. “Where’s the exit?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  A variety of sounds came from behind the door: water splashed, drawers banged shut. The voice asked, “What do you want?”

  “I need the exit! I want to get out!”

  “One minute.”

  He heard a key turn in the lock, then the door opened. The room was dark. “Go ahead,” said the voice.

  It smelled of photographic developer. Peretz, arms held out in front of him, took a few uncertain steps.

  “I can’t see anything,” he said.

  “You’ll get used to it soon,” the voice promised. “Well, go on, what are you stopping for?�
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  Someone took Peretz by the sleeve and led him along. “Sign here,” said the voice.

  A pencil appeared in Peretz’s fingers. He now saw a piece of paper in front of him, glowing dimly in the dark.

  “Did you sign it?”

  “No. What am I signing?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not a death sentence. Sign that you didn’t see anything.”

  Peretz signed somewhere at random.

  Someone took him firmly by the sleeve again and guided him between some curtains, then the voice asked, “How many of you are there?”

  “There are four of us.” The words sounded as if they came from behind a door.

  “Are you lined up? Be advised, I’m about to open the door and let a man out. Come in single file, no pushing, and no goofing around. Got it?”

  “Got it. Not our first time.”

  “Everyone brought their clothes?”

  “We did, we did. Let him out.”

  He heard a key turning in a lock again. Peretz was nearly blinded by the bright light, then he was shoved outside. He slid down a bunch of stairs without opening his eyes, and only then did he realize he was in the inner courtyard of the Administration. Irritated voices began to shout, “Peretz, what’s going on? Hurry up! How long are we supposed to wait for you?”

  A truck stood in the middle of the courtyard, filled with employees of the Scientific Guard. Kim was sticking his head out of the cab and waving angrily. Peretz ran up to the vehicle and clambered up onto the side of the truck, then he was grabbed, scooped up, and dumped into the back with the others. The truck immediately roared and lurched forward, someone stepped on Peretz’s hand, someone sat down hard on him, everyone began to laugh and shout, and they were off.

  “Perry, here’s your suitcase,” someone said.

  “Peretz, is it true that you’re leaving?”

  “Signor Peretz, do you wish to have a cigarette?”

  Peretz lit a cigarette, sat down on his suitcase, and raised the collar of his suit jacket. Someone gave him his coat, and he wrapped himself in it, smiling gratefully. The truck was going faster and faster, and despite the hot day, the oncoming wind felt rather brisk. Peretz smoked, covering the cigarette with his hand, and looked around. I’m leaving, he thought. I’m leaving. This is the last time I’ll see you, wall. This is the last time I’ll see you, villas. Good-bye, dump, I lost my galoshes around here once. Good-bye, puddle; good-bye, chess; good-bye, buttermilk. How nice this is, how easy! I’ll never drink buttermilk again. I’ll never sit down at a chessboard again . . .

  Employees, huddling by the cab, holding on to each another, and hiding behind each other from the wind, conversed on a variety of unrelated topics. “It’s been calculated, I’ve calculated it myself. If we keep going at this rate, then in a hundred years, there will be ten employees for each square meter of land, and the total weight will be such that the cliff will collapse. We will need so much food and water that to transport it all we’ll need a continuous chain of vehicles between the Administration and the Mainland—they’ll need to move at thirty miles an hour and be one meter apart, and they’ll have to unload on the go . . . No, no, I’m completely sure that the Board of Directors is already considering regulating the influx of new employees. Judge for yourself: there’s the hotel manager, for example, seven kids and another on the way—it’s not right. And all of them healthy. Bootlicherson says we have to do something about it. It doesn’t have to be sterilization, like he proposes—”

  “Bootlicherson shouldn’t talk.”

  “That’s why I said that it doesn’t have to be sterilization.”

  “They say that annual leave will be increased to six months.”

  They passed the park, and Peretz suddenly realized that the truck was going the wrong way. They were about to go through the gates and drive down the winding road that went beneath the cliff.

  “Listen, where are we going?” he asked anxiously.

  “What do you mean, where? To get our salaries.”

  “Not to the Mainland, then?”

  “Why would we go to the Mainland? The pay clerk has arrived at the biological research station.”

  “So you’re going to the biological research station? To the forest?”

  “Well, yeah. We’re the Scientific Guard, and we get paid at the biological research station.”

  “What about me?” Peretz asked in bewilderment.

  “You’ll get paid, too. You’re supposed to get a bonus . . . By the way, did everyone fill out their forms?”

  There was a flurry of activity: the employees took multicolored, variously formatted documents with official seals out of their pockets and carefully looked them over.

  “Peretz, did you fill out the questionnaire?”

  “What questionnaire?”

  “Excuse me, what in the world do you mean? Form eighty-four.”

  “I didn’t fill anything out,” said Peretz.

  “Kind sirs! What is going on here? Peretz has no documents!”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. He probably has a pass.”

  “I don’t have a pass,” said Peretz. “I don’t have anything. Just a suitcase and this coat . . . You see, I wasn’t planning to go into the forest, I was going to leave . . .”

  “Did you get a physical? Vaccines?”

  Peretz shook his head. The truck was already rolling along the winding road, and Peretz was watching the forest with detachment, seeing the porous, flat layers on the horizon, the motionless seething of its thunderstorm, and the sticky spiderweb of fog in the shadow of the cliff.

  “You can’t get away with a thing like that,” someone said.

  “Then again, the road itself doesn’t contain classified material.”

  “What about Bootlicherson?”

  “What does Bootlicherson have to do with it, if there’s no classified material on the road?”

  “You don’t know that, I assume. And neither does anyone else. Last year, Candide flew off without documents, the reckless fellow, and where is he now?”

  “First of all, it wasn’t last year, it was a long time ago. And second, he was killed, that’s all. In the line of duty.”

  “Yeah? And you’ve seen the order about it?”

  “That’s true, there was no order.”

  “Then there’s nothing to argue about. They’ve stuck him in the bunker by the checkpoint, and there he sits ever since. Filling out questionnaires . . .”

  “Perry, why in the world didn’t you fill out the questionnaire? Do you have something to hide?”

  “One minute, gentlemen! This is a serious matter. To be on the safe side, I propose examining employee Peretz in democratic fashion, as it were. Who will be chairman?”

  “Bootlicherson for chairman!”

  “A very good proposal. We elect the highly respected Bootlicherson as honorary chairman. Your faces tell me it’s unanimous. And who will be deputy chairman?”

  “Vanderbilt for deputy chairman!”

  “Vanderbilt? . . . Well . . . There is a proposal to elect Vanderbilt as deputy chairman. Are there any other proposals? Who’s for? Who’s against? Anyone abstaining? Hmm . . . Two abstained. Why did you abstain?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “I don’t see the point. Why crucify the man? He feels bad as is.”

  “Got it. And you?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “As you wish . . . Deputy Chairman, take that down: two abstained. Let us begin. Who wants to go first? No volunteers? Then allow me. Employee Peretz, please answer the following question. How many total miles did you travel between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, a) on foot, b) using ground transportation, and c) by air. Take your time—think about it. Here’s a pencil and paper.”

  Peretz obediently took the pencil and paper and started trying to remember. The truck lurched and jolted. At first everyone was looking at him, then they got tired of looking at him and someone began to dr
one, “Overpopulation doesn’t scare me. But have you noticed all the machinery standing around? Seen the stuff on the wasteland behind the workshops? And what kind of machinery is it, do you know that? That’s right, it’s all in boxes, boarded up. And no one has had the time to open them up and take a look. You want to know what I saw there the night before last? I stopped to have a smoke, and suddenly I heard a cracking noise. I turned around and saw: the side of one of the boxes—a huge box, as big as a house—was being pushed out and swinging open, like a door. And a mechanism crawled out of the box. I won’t describe it to you, I don’t need to tell you why. But it was one hell of a sight . . . It stood there a few seconds, produced a long tube with a whirligig on the end from its innards, stuck it up into the sky, almost seemed to be looking around, then it climbed back into the box and closed it. I wasn’t feeling well at the time, so I simply didn’t believe my eyes. But this morning I thought: I may as well take a look. I got there, and my skin crawled. The box looked completely normal, not a single gap or crack, but that side was nailed in from the inside! And the pointy ends of the nails were sticking out, shiny, as long as your finger. So now I’ve been thinking: what did it climb out for? And are there others like it? Maybe every night they . . . look around like this. So for now there’s overpopulation, there’s this, there’s that, but one day they’ll massacre us wholesale, and our bones will rain down from the cliff . . . And we’ll be lucky if it’s bones and not bone powder . . . What? No way, pal, thanks a lot, tell the engineers yourself if you like. I saw this machine, you know, and how am I supposed to know whether I was allowed to see it? The boxes don’t say whether their contents are classified . . .”

  “Well, Peretz, are you ready?”

  “No,” said Peretz. “I can’t remember a thing. It was a very long time ago.”

  “That’s strange. Now I, for example, remember perfectly well. I traveled six thousand seven hundred and one miles by rail, seventeen thousand one hundred fifty-three miles by air (of which three thousand two hundred and fifteen miles were for personal reasons), and fifteen thousand and seven miles on foot. And I’m older than you. Strange, Peretz, very strange . . . All right, then. Let’s try another question. What were your favorite toys when you were of preschool age?”