Barcelona had always been a multicultural city, but the arrival of millions of Fundamental Knowledge System employees from all around the globe, in order to cover all the possible languages and dialects both alive and dead, had turned the city into a new, improved Babel.
All the central patios of the blocks in the Ensanche had been upgraded, according to the official term, to host twenty-five-story buildings. All of them were identical, and identically filled with the Encyclopaedia workers. The lower levels were full of presses and printers, and technical workers wearing black, ink-proof uniforms. The upper floors, such as the one where Joan Perucho worked, were provided with a linotype machine for each of the editors. These were dressed in anthracite suits: even if they didn’t work with ink, and were not at risk of staining themselves, they had to wear a dark color, as if knowledge might also leave a permanent and disgusting stain.
Fear came suddenly, in the form of paranoid thoughts: What if there were an undisclosed control system, a secret body of agents devoted to pursuing the truth and punishing the introducers of false data, determined to send them to humid and squalid prisons that they would never leave again?
Joan Perucho entered the building with his usual smile, repeating to himself the mantra: it is almost impossible to prove that something has not happened. In fact, were he assigned to find proof that some book, review, or article had not been published, it would take him months. He had never heard of such a commission, and he seriously doubted the Fundamental Knowledge System would use paid work hours to distinguish between documental truth and lies. There was no need to; most of the employees were predictable conformists, bootlickers, as grey as their suits.
As he entered the packed elevator, he felt cold sweat trickle down his nape and tried to calm himself. He went to his linotype, in the Catalan section, casually took out the fake documents, and dispersed them between dozens of genuine ones. Then, as every day, he began to type.
The morning passed without incident. Joan took heart and accelerated the typing of false documents. He had lunch in the workplace and continued introducing spurious lines and lines:
Sor Assumpció Ardebol depicts the darkest streets of old Barcelona under the form of a descent to hell, both literally and metaphorically. El Raval is unknown and risky, a foreign land for decent people, but also the place where a truly satanic encounter can occur. The true risk is not thieves, drug-addicted beggars, or crazy vagabonds, but the “small doors,” inadvertent thresholds, often concealed by shadows.
“Perucho,” said a monotone, dispassionate voice, “the boss wants to see you in his office. At five.”
Perucho tried to control his shaking hands. He was not often called to the director’s desk, but it happened sometimes. Maybe this was just for a routine verification:
“Perucho, how is the work going?”
“Very well, sir.”
“Have you found enough materials to maintain your daily quota of entries?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you need another documental trip to Girona?”
“Maybe next month, sir.”
The temptation to escape, to run out with some slight excuse, was almost overwhelming. But Joan Perucho had a strong mind. He inhaled deeply, discreetly, and told himself an old joke:
A Catalan was in front of a fishbowl with only a fish in it. Amazingly, when the man looked up, the fish seemed to copy him and went in the same direction. The same thing happened when the man looked in other directions.
A Spaniard, watching the Catalan, went to talk to him.
“This is incredible! Marvelous!” said the Spaniard. “How can you make the fish follow your command?”
“It is very easy,” the Catalan answered calmly. “I stare deeply into the eyes of the animal to subject it to my will. The inferior fish mind acknowledges the superior human mind. With a little practice, I’m sure you can get the same result in no time.”
This seemed entirely reasonable to the Spaniard. After all, he had never tried to command a fish before. Surely, it was a piece of cake. He began to stare at the fish deep in the eye.
Ten minutes later, the Catalan man returned to the fishbowl.
“How is it going?” he asked the Spaniard.
The Spaniard turned with a vacant look, his lips pursed in the form of a fish mouth.
“Blub! Blub! Blub!” he gaped.
Perucho laughed to himself. No matter how many times he heard or told the joke, it was still his favorite and never failed to cheer him up. He looked at the big clock on the wall, and saw it was almost four. He had a full hour of work left: if he was going to get caught, he had better finish the project first.
“Some letters?” asked the girl with the trolley, offering him small baskets of metallic vowels and consonants.
“Some ‘F’s and ‘V’s, please” answered Perucho.
“¡El bombín! ¡Ha vingut el bombín!” one of the editors whispered in Catalan, as a warning.
El bombín was one of the senior leaders, their boss’s boss, if Perucho had gotten it right. He was rarely seen in the office, and when he was, he liked to find fault with the workers. “Sit properly, Balagué!” or “This is not the right way to position your hands over the keyboard, Fontanella. I hope you don’t expect the Fundamental Knowledge System Foundation to pay for the medical expenses you will get if you insist on not correcting your posture.”
All the editors tensed instantly. Joan Perucho didn’t. He was already in a perfect position, as was his habit. He had learned to maintain his spine in a vertical position to avoid back pains and fatigue. Maybe that was the reason el bombín had never made an observation about him. Sometimes Perucho was under the impression that el bombín had a very peculiar sense of humor and that he just enjoyed startling the workers.
But instead of his usual round through the linotypists, el bombín went right to the boss’s office and closed the door after him. The workers relaxed automatically, except Perucho. He needed three more internal jokes and a little bit of silent meditation to regain his composure.
He typed a last article entitled, “The Portrait of the Devil in Sor Assumpció Ardebol’s Work.” It was his favorite, the pearl in the crown of the fictional author he had invented. In the article, an equally fictional PhD candidate explained that in the nun’s cautionary tales, the devil was always depicted as a person with their right ear missing. The meaning of this characterization would be a metaphor for the people who only want to hear the bad half of the words, the wrong side of every story, and so had a negative perception of human nature.
When the article was done, Perucho took the letter tray, perfectly composed, put it in the plate elevator, and sent it to the printing machine. When that was done, his whole body relaxed. Now his last work would be part of the Encyclopaedia irretrievably. He could be arrested now. He almost welcomed it.
But el bombín was still with the boss half an hour later, and then an hour, and then two. At seven, the anthracite editors began to abandon their workplaces. Perucho worked for an additional half hour, which was not unusual for him, waiting for el bombín to leave. But it didn’t happen.