“I’m sure they’ll be coming soon. We’ve got to hide you somewhere safer, but where? We should hurry before it’s too late. What about going to your wife’s family? But I suppose that’s the first place they’d look. No, I know. What about the abandoned school where we leave her messages? There must be plenty of rooms you could use: the teachers’ lounge or a laboratory, the library or the cafeteria. That would be the perfect place to hide. I’ll go to prepare it right away.”
R sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. As the warmth of his hand worked its way into my skin, I trembled harder and harder, unable to stop myself—even though I knew he meant his touch to soothe me.
“The first thing we need to do is calm down.” He spoke slowly as he loosened my fingers from his knee one by one. “If they knew about this place, they wouldn’t have arrested him, they would have come straight here. So there’s nothing to worry about for the present—they haven’t found us out. But they might, if we make a careless mistake. More than likely, they are looking elsewhere.”
“But why did they take the old man?” I asked.
“You can’t think of any reason? Had he been stopped on the street while he was carrying something suspicious? Or had the Memory Police come to search the old boat?”
“No, nothing like that,” I said, staring at the tips of my fingers, which were still numb despite his gentle care.
“So then don’t worry. The investigation probably has nothing to do with me. They’re always gathering information. They round up anyone and question him or her about anything at all. A neighbor raising roses in his greenhouse; someone buying slightly more bread than strictly necessary for the number of people in their family; suspicious shadows on the window curtains—things like that. At any rate, we should wait here as quietly as we can. That’s the best plan.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I just hope nothing terrible has happened to him.”
“What could have happened?”
“They could have tortured him. There’s no knowing what they’re capable of. And then even if he didn’t want to, he might break down and tell them about this place.”
“You mustn’t let yourself worry so much.” R hugged my shoulder tightly. The electric coils of the space heater lit our faces from below, and the fan continued to rotate with a creaking noise, like the whimper of some small animal.
“If you tell me you need me to leave here, I’ll go,” he said, his voice low and calm.
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m not afraid of being arrested. I’m afraid that you’ll disappear. That’s why I’m trembling like this.”
I shook my head as I said this, my hair brushing against his sweater. He held me in his arms for a long while, though there was no way to measure the flow of time in this room where the sun never entered.
I wondered how long we sat there. As the heat of his body warmed me, the trembling gradually subsided. Finally, I pulled free of his embrace and stood up.
“I’m sorry to have lost my nerve,” I said.
“There’s no need to apologize. The old man is our friend.” He looked down at his lap.
“I suppose all I can do is pray,” I said.
“I’ll pray, too.”
I climbed the ladder and released the latch. Then I pushed open the trapdoor. When I turned to look back, R was still sitting on the bed, staring at the coil in the heater.
The next day, without consulting R, I decided to pay a visit to the headquarters of the Memory Police. I knew that he would have been opposed if I had so much as mentioned this plan, and it was true that nothing good was likely to come from intentionally entering their stronghold. But I couldn’t sit by and do nothing. Even if I couldn’t get in to see the old man, I would probably be able to learn something about his situation and perhaps even send something to him in his cell. I wanted to help him in any way I could.
The sun was shining weakly that morning, but on the sidewalks, the snow was still piled up, fluffy and new, and it came up to my ankles with each step I took. The Memory Police wore snow boots, but the townspeople had great difficulty making their way through the streets. With their backs bent and their bags clutched to their chests, they pushed ahead step by careful step, like so many animals trudging along, lost in thought.
The snow poured down into my shoes as I walked, and before long my socks were soaking wet. In my bag, I had brought some extra clothes, a blanket, a hand warmer, a tin of hard candies, and five rolls I had baked earlier that morning. On the avenue where the tramway ran, an old theater had been renovated to serve as the Memory Police headquarters. The main entrance was reached by climbing a flight of wide stone steps flanked on either side by ornate pillars. The flag of the Memory Police hung limply atop the building in the still morning air.
Guards were posted on either side of the entrance, their legs slightly apart, hands crossed behind their backs, eyes staring straight ahead. I hesitated, unsure whether I should announce my business to them or try to enter without saying anything. The wooden door ahead of me was thick and heavy, and I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to open it by myself. But the guards continued to ignore me, as though they were under orders not to speak.
“I wonder if I could ask a question.” Having summoned my courage, I addressed the guard on the right. “I’ve come to see someone and deliver a few things to him, and I’d like to know where I should go.”
The guard continued looking straight ahead and never batted an eyelash. He was pale and much younger than I was, just a boy. The fur trim at his collar looked damp, as though snow had melted on it.
“Then may I go inside?” I said, this time addressing the guard on the left. But the result was the same. So, having no other choice, I put my hand on the knob and tried to pull the door open. As I’d imagined, it was extremely heavy, but by hitching my bag over my shoulder and tugging with both hands, I was at last able to move it little by little. Needless to say, neither young man made any move to help me.
Inside, the hall was dim, with an enormously high ceiling. A number of officers dressed in the familiar uniforms paced back and forth across the room. There were also a few outsiders hurrying along with tense looks on their faces, but no voices could be heard, no sound of laughter. Nor was there any music playing. Just the ringing of heels against the hard floor.
Facing me was a gently curving stairway leading to a mezzanine lobby, and behind that an elaborate elevator left over from the days when the building had been a theater. To my left were a massive antique desk and chair. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, but the glass around the electric bulbs was cloudy and it cast much less light than one would have imagined. And every available space—next to the elevator buttons, over the telephone on the wall, on the pillars under the staircase—was hung with pennants emblazoned with the insignia of the Memory Police.
An officer was seated at the desk, utterly absorbed in something he was writing. Deciding this must be the reception area, I took a deep breath and approached him.
“I have a package I’d like to have delivered to an acquaintance…” My voice trailed off, echoing from the ceiling before being lost in the vastness of the hall.
“Package?” He paused, twirling his pen in his fingers, and repeated the word as though trying to recall the meaning of some rarely used philosophical term.
“Yes,” I said, thinking this was at least an improvement from the stony guards outside. “Just a few things I thought he could use, some clothes and food.”