“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” R began rather guardedly one evening as he received his dinner tray halfway up the ladder, “would you mind finding me some sort of work to do? I’d like to contribute what I can—and besides, it would help me pass the time.”
“You mean something other than reading my novel?” I looked down at him through the trapdoor.
“I do. I know I can’t be very useful working here in this room, but any sort of trivial task will do. It may be difficult for you to find something, but I’d be truly grateful. I feel so useless.”
He held the tray in both hands and looked down at the food arranged on it. As he spoke, little ripples ran across the surface of the potato soup.
“It won’t be difficult at all. I have all kinds of little chores. By tomorrow morning I’ll find something. It’s an excellent idea, killing two creatures with one stone. So eat your dinner while it’s still warm. I’m sorry that it’s the same soup day after day, but the harvest was terrible this year, and there are no vegetables other than last year’s potatoes and onions.”
“Not at all. It’s delicious.”
“That’s the first time anyone has ever complimented my cooking. Thank you.”
“And my thanks to you for finding me something to do.”
“Not at all. Good night then.”
“Until tomorrow.”
Standing on the narrow ladder, his hands encumbered by the tray, R simply nodded his good-bye. Once I was sure he had reached the floor, I closed the trapdoor.
Thus it was that supplying him with work came to be added to my daily tasks. They were all simple jobs—organizing receipts, sharpening pencils, recopying my address book, putting page numbers on my manuscripts—but he eagerly took them all on. And by the next morning everything had been finished in the most precise manner possible.
In this way we managed to live in relative security. Everything went according to plan, and we seemed to have solutions for any problems that did occur. The old man did much to help us, and R did his best to adjust quickly to the secret room.
But quite apart from the small satisfactions we enjoyed, the world outside was deteriorating day by day. The disappearances, which had slowed down after the roses, returned with two in quick succession: first, photographs, and then fruits of all sorts.
As I was gathering all the albums and photos in the house—including the portrait of my mother on the mantelpiece—to burn them in the garden incinerator, R made a desperate effort to stop me.
“Photographs are precious. They preserve memories. If you burn them, there’s no getting them back. You mustn’t do this. Absolutely not.”
“But what can I do? The time has come for them to disappear,” I told him.
“If their photographs are gone, how will you remember your parents’ faces?” he asked, looking deeply troubled.
“It’s their photographs that will disappear, not my mother and father,” I said. “I’ll never forget their faces.”
“They may be nothing more than scraps of paper, but they capture something profound. Light and wind and air, the tenderness or joy of the photographer, the bashfulness or pleasure of the subject. You have to guard these things forever in your heart. That’s why photographs are taken in the first place.”
“Yes, I know, and that’s why I’ve always been very careful with them. They brought back wonderful memories every time I looked at them, memories that made my heart ache. As I wander through my sparse forest of memories, photographs have been my most reliable compass. But it’s time to move on. It’s terrible to lose a compass, but I have no strength to resist the disappearances.”
“But even if you can’t resist them, you don’t have to burn your photographs. Important things remain important things, no matter how much the world changes,” said R. “Their essence doesn’t change. If you keep them, they’re bound to bring you something in return. I don’t want to see any more of your memories lost.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head wearily. “Nothing comes back now when I see a photograph. No memories, no response. They’re nothing more than pieces of paper. A new hole has opened in my heart, and there’s no way to fill it up again. That’s how it is when something disappears, though I suppose you can’t understand…”
He looked down, his eyes sad.
“The new cavities in my heart search for things to burn. They drive me to burn things and I can stop only when everything is in ashes. Why would I keep them when I don’t think I will be able to recall the meaning of the word ‘photograph’ much longer, not to mention the danger if the Memory Police find them. They’re even more vigilant after a disappearance, and if they suspect me, that will put you in danger.”
He said nothing more. Taking off his glasses, he pressed his fingers to his temples and heaved a deep sigh. I took the paper bag full of photographs that I’d been holding to the incinerator at the back of the garden.
The disappearance of fruit was much simpler. When we woke in the morning, fruit of every sort was falling from trees all over the island. A pattering sound could be heard everywhere, and in the northern hills and the forest park, fruit came down like a hailstorm. Some were as big as baseballs, some small as beans, some covered in shells, some brightly colored—fruits of all kinds. Though the morning was perfectly still, fruit fell from the branches one after the other.
They fell on your head if you walked outdoors, and if you failed to watch your step, you trampled them underfoot. Then, before long, the snow began to fall, covering all the fruit.
Chapter 13
It was the first time in ages that snow had fallen. When it started, it had seemed as though white sand was being blown in with the wind, but gradually the flakes grew larger, and in no time the whole countryside was covered. Snow collected on the tiniest leaves on the trees, on the streetlights, on the window frames—and it stayed there for a very long time.
The hunt for memories became a daily activity in the midst of the snowstorm. The Memory Police roamed the town in trench coats and boots. The coats were made of material that looked soft and warm, and the collars and cuffs were trimmed in fur that had been dyed deep green. You could have searched every clothing store on the island and never have found such elegant coats—which made them stand out immediately in any crowd.
Sometimes the Memory Police would appear in the middle of the night, completely surrounding a whole block with their trucks, and search every house without exception. At times these searches would yield results, but at other times they came up empty. No one knew which block would be chosen next. I began waking at night at the slightest sound. My eyes focused on the pattern in the carpet, floating up out of the darkness, while my thoughts turned to R, holding his breath below. I prayed he would pass the night in safety.
The townspeople avoided going out any more than necessary, and on weekends they stayed home and shoveled the snow. They closed their curtains at dusk and lived as quietly as possible. It was as though the snow had frozen their hearts.
Nor did the secret we harbored escape the influence of the island’s oppressive atmosphere. One day, out of the blue, the old man was taken by the Memory Police.
I raised the trapdoor and called, “They must have learned something! What should we do?”
I was trembling so hard it was difficult to climb down the ladder, and when I reached the floor, I collapsed on the bed.