I slipped my hands behind my head and clasped them together to keep them from trembling.
“Why is this still here?” he said, holding a small rectangular object in front of my face. I blinked and stared at a pocket datebook that had been in my handbag.
“No particular reason,” I said, trying to stop the tune from the music box that was still playing in my head. “I just forgot about it because I hardly ever used it.”
He was interested in the datebook and had not noticed the rug—or so I told myself. And the datebook presented no real problem. Nothing important was written in it, at most the date the dry cleaning would be ready or the schedule for street sweeping in the town or an appointment with the dentist.
“The disappearance of the calendars means that we no longer have any use for days and dates. You know what happens if we keep things around us that should have gone away.” He flipped through the pages at random but apparently had no interest in what was written on them. “We need to get rid of this right away.”
He took a lighter out of his coat pocket, lit the pages of the book, and tossed it out the window. I could see the rug in the space between his widespread legs. The book tumbled through the air, sending off sparks like tiny fireworks. There was a splash, and the sparks lingered briefly in the darkness before being sucked into the river below the window.
At that moment, as though the sound were a prearranged signal, the leader of the group called out, “Stop!” The men left what they were doing, quickly formed a line, and marched downstairs. Then they walked out the front door, their guns clattering at their belts, without so much as a word to us or any attempt to close the drawers and cupboards they had left in disarray. When they were gone, I collapsed against the old man’s chest.
“It’s all right now,” he murmured, smiling down at me. The corner of the rug had escaped their notice.
Outside, having completed their search, the Memory Police climbed into their trucks and prepared to depart. The neighbors watched the scene from the shadows of their gates. Cold snow fell against their cheeks and necks and hands, but they didn’t seem to feel it. Tension and fear lingered in their bodies, leaving no room for other sensations.
The headlights of the trucks mixed with the streetlights and the white of the snow and chased away the darkness. Though there were now many people gathered in the street, it was so quiet you might almost have heard the snow pressing against the night air.
Just then, three shadows emerged from the house to the east of mine. It was too dark to distinguish their features, but they walked wearily through the snow, backs bent, the Memory Police pushing them from behind, the light glinting cruelly off their guns.
Snatches of my neighbors’ voices could be heard in the dark.
“I had no idea they were hiding people in there,” said the former hatmaker. “Who would have thought it?”
“Seems as though both the husband and wife were in a secret group that helps folks like that.”
“I guess that’s why they didn’t get to know anyone in the neighborhood.”
“Look at him. He’s just a child.”
“Poor thing.”
The old man and I held hands and watched as the Memory Police forced them into the covered back of one of the trucks. We could see a boy of fifteen or sixteen being held on either side by the couple. He looked sturdy enough, but the pom-poms decorating the fringe of his scarf made it clear he was still young.
The canvas cover was lowered and the line of trucks drove away. The neighbors retreated to their houses. Alone now in the street, the old man and I squeezed our hands more tightly and stared into the darkness for a long time. The dog from the house next door, left to his own devices, was rubbing his snout in the snow and snorting.
That night, I wept in the hidden room. Never in my life had I cried for so long without stopping. I knew, of course, that I should be happy that nothing had happened to R, but for some reason I was unable to control my emotions and they were swept away in a direction I hadn’t anticipated.
But I’m not sure the word “crying” did justice to what I was experiencing. Clearly, it was not a matter of being sad. Nor was it just relief from the tension I had felt. It was simply that all the thoughts that had floated through my mind since I’d first taken R into my care had been changed into tears and come flooding out. And there was no way to stop them. I clenched my teeth, telling myself that I shouldn’t let him see me in such a pitiful state, but despite his attempts to comfort me with gentle reassurances, it was useless. I could do nothing but sit very still, eyes downcast, in the company of my flowing tears.
“I never thought I’d be happy that this room is so small,” I murmured, turning to sprawl facedown on the bed.
“And why is that?” He was sitting next to me, stroking my hair and back, trying as best he could to calm me.
“Because the smaller it is, the closer we feel. On a night like this, when I couldn’t stand to be alone, it’s peaceful to be in such a tiny space.”
The quilt was warm and damp against my cheek. The folding table and dishes from the party had been put away and the room was back to normal. I thought I detected the slightly sweet smell of the cake, the only sign of our celebration.
“You can stay here as long as you want to. I don’t think they’ll be coming back again tonight.” As he spoke, he bent toward me as though trying to read my expression.
“Forgive me,” I said. “The truth is, I should be comforting you.”
“Don’t be silly. Your night was much more frightening than mine. All I had to do was stay here and keep quiet.”
“They walked back and forth, back and forth, right above you. You must have heard them.”
“Of course,” he said, nodding.
“The corner of the rug was turned up ever so slightly. We were hurrying when we left you and I didn’t put it back quite the right way. I knew it would be the end if they noticed it. It felt terrible that your fate depended on something as insignificant as the corner of a rug. I wanted to run over and stomp it down, stomp it until the rug melted into the floor—but I knew I couldn’t. I could only stand there trembling like a frightened rabbit.”
My tears had continued to flow the whole time I was speaking, and it seemed strange that I was able to express myself so clearly while I was crying. My feelings and tears and words all seemed to flow from a place I could not reach.
“I’m sorry you were suffering so much on my account.”
He looked down at the electric heater at his feet.
“I’m not crying about that. Believe me, if I were so afraid of the Memory Police I never would have agreed to hide you in the first place. I don’t really know why I’m crying. I can’t explain it myself, much less stop it.”
I raised my head from the quilt and brushed the hair out of my eyes.
“There’s no need to look for an explanation for something that has none. What matters now is that I’ve put you and the old man in danger,” said R.
“No, it’s not that. I think all this crying must be proof that my heart is so weak that I don’t know how to help myself.”
“But I’d say it’s just the opposite. Your heart is doing everything it can to preserve its existence. No matter how many memories these men take away, they’ll never reduce it to nothing.”
“I hope that’s true.”
I looked at R. I needed only to lean slightly in his direction for us to be touching. He raised his hand and brushed away a tear at the corner of my eye with his fingers. They were warm. I watched as my tears fell on his hand. And then he took me in his arms.
The silence of the night had returned. It suddenly seemed unbelievable that less than an hour ago the doorbell had rung and boots had stomped across the floor above this room. Now I could feel nothing but the beating of his heart through his sweater.