3. Find a rug to conceal the trapdoor; plain and simple, not an elaborate design that might attract attention.
4. Assemble basic necessities for R’s everyday life: extension cord, lamp, bedding, electric kettle, tea service, etc.; avoid buying everything new—large purchases attract attention.
5. Plan a way to get R to my house unnoticed; this is most important and most difficult.
Next, the list for the old man:
1. Install ventilation fan; room is too stuffy.
2. Install plumbing to provide a minimum amount of running water; find a way somehow.
3. Line room with thick paper, to insulate and soundproof.
4. Construct toilet; a complicated project but needs to be done discreetly.
5. Learn more about R; from now on he won’t have contact with anyone except the two of us.
We discussed everything in detail, going over the plans for preparing the hidden room and hiding R, making sure we had missed nothing. We imagined every possible hitch or obstacle and how we would cope with it. What to do if our truck was stopped for inspection as we were moving construction materials. What if the neighbor’s dog caught wind of something. What if the Memory Police took R before we were ready… There were any number of causes for worry.
“Let’s take a break and have a snack,” the old man said at last. He took the kettle from the stove and poured boiling water in the teapot. Then, while the tea was brewing, he went back to cutting the apple cake. “In general,” he continued, “most things you worry about end up being no more than that—just worries.”
“I suppose so.”
“I know so,” he said. “Just leave it to me. We’ll manage, you’ll see.”
“I suppose so,” I repeated. “I suppose we will.”
He put a large slice of cake on my plate. He still thought of me as a young, growing girl and invariably offered me too much to eat. The plate rested on a snow-white paper napkin. The tablecloth was smooth and starched, and in a bud vase at the center was a small branch with red berries from a tree I often saw at the top of the hill.
We reread the notes we had made in the ferry logbook in order to commit everything to memory. Then, to be rid of the evidence, the old man tore out the page and tossed it in the stove. Engulfed in flames, the paper shriveled and dissolved. We stood in silence for a moment, staring into the fire. Horrible things were about to happen, but somehow we felt increasingly calm. The air in the wheelhouse was warm and smelled of cake.
The work began the next day. I divided the research materials from the storeroom into small batches and burned them in the garden incinerator as though disposing of old magazines. As for the rug, I decided to use one that had been in the living room, and I managed to find all the basic necessities around the house.
But the remodeling of the room proved to be a more difficult problem. It was rumored that all the carpenters on the island had been recruited by the Memory Police and instructed to alert them to any suspicious construction projects. But it would also attract attention if they found out that we were quietly doing the work on our own.
So we were already in a state of nervous exhaustion by the time we had merely assembled the tools and materials. The old man proved his ingenuity in gathering all the things we would need. He slid lengths of pipe and lumber under his sweater, hung bags of nails and hinges and screws around his waist, and stuffed his pockets full of tools. When he finally reached the house for a delivery, the look of relief on his face was obvious. He would laugh and give an odd stretch to his spine, explaining that the clattering sound all around him as he pedaled his bicycle had made him feel as though his bones were coming apart.
It was wonderful to see how he went about his work. He was careful, precise, conscientious, and, on top of all that, quick. From time to time he would study a drawing he had made ahead of time—probably on a page from the logbook as well—then, once he had collected his thoughts, launch into the work without hesitation. Cutting a hole in the wall, he ran a pipe through it and then connected it with another pipe he found running under the ceiling. He spliced an electrical cable, fastened it onto a new outlet, cut a piece of plywood, and affixed it with nails. I helped him as much as I could, taking care not to get in his way.
To cover the noise from the construction, I played records of symphony music in my father’s old office. The old man became adept at timing his work with the hammer or saw to correspond to the climax of a piece when all the instruments were playing together. Often we would work straight through the day, without stopping to eat lunch.
The project was finished in the evening on the fourth day. We sat down and looked around at a room that was better than anything we could have imagined. It was simple, neat, and cozy. The beige wallpaper had proven to be a good choice. There was no getting around the lack of space, but we had still managed to provide all the basic necessities in a compact form. There was a bed, a desk, and a chair, and in one corner a toilet concealed behind plywood walls. The new plumbing allowed the water in the plastic tank above the toilet to flush down to the sewer. I could foresee that from now on it would be my task to refill the tank each day.
The old man had come up with the idea of installing a simple system to communicate with the hidden room. He ran a rubber tube from the office to the storeroom below and inserted funnels he had found in the kitchen in either end. By speaking into the funnels, you could talk without actually opening the trapdoor, as though on the telephone.
The freshly washed sheets and blankets were clean and soft. The desk and chair gave off the scent of new wood. The pale orange light of the lamp was enough to illuminate the room. We switched it off, climbed the steps of the ladder, and pushed up the hatch. Negotiating the tight entrance was no mean feat. You had to narrow your shoulders and twist them to one side as you pulled yourself up with both hands. The old man helped me as I struggled through the opening.
I worried that a man as large as R would get stuck somewhere in the middle of this maneuver, but then I realized that he would probably not have many occasions to leave the room once he entered it.
We fit the door back into the opening and covered it with the rug, leaving no sign at all of the room that lay hidden beneath.
Chapter 10
“I have a place to hide you. Please come with me.”
When we had finished our work, I made this declaration to R, being careful not to change my tone or expression, exactly as though I had been inviting him to dinner.
The lobby of the publishing company was crowded. Here and there, laughter or the clatter of a coffee cup or the ring of a phone could be heard. I needed to explain quickly, using this noise to cover our conversation.
“You’ll be safe there, I can assure you. Please get ready as soon as you can.”
R set his cigarette down in the ashtray and looked at me without blinking.
“You’ve found a hiding place for me?”
“For you—of course.”
“But how did you find it? It couldn’t have been easy.”
“That doesn’t matter. But we have to hurry, before they decode your genome…”
“I’ve already decided,” he said, interrupting me.
“Decided what?” I asked.
“I haven’t told my wife anything. She’s pregnant, and the baby will be born in a month. I can’t go and leave her behind, and I can’t take her with me. No one would be willing to hide a pregnant woman.”
“You have to hide by yourself. That’s the only way to save not just yourself, but your wife and your baby too.”