The Memory Police

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.”

“But what would that change, whether I hide or not? And when would I ever be able to return?” The smoke rising from the ashtray drifted between us. R tapped his lighter three times on the table, as though trying to calm himself.

“No one knows what the future holds. Someday, even the Memory Police are bound to disappear. That’s what happens to everything on this island,” I said.

“But—I had no idea you were planning this. I’m confused,” said R.

“Of course you are. But for the moment, you need to focus on escaping the Memory Police. I know you must be worried about your wife, but those of us who stay behind will find a way to help her. I’ll certainly look after her. Your job is to survive, so that one day you’ll be reunited with her and your baby. And besides, if you’re arrested, what will become of the novel I’m writing?”

Suddenly sensing that my voice had grown louder and louder, I took a deep breath and drank the rest of my coffee.

The fountain in the courtyard of the building had been turned off, and there were leaves floating in the basin. A black cat dozed on the brick wall that surrounded it. The flowers in the beds were withered, and the wind was scattering scraps of paper across the pavement.

“Where is this hiding place?” R asked, his eyes fixed on the lighter in his palm.

“I can’t tell you ahead of time,” I said, following the script the old man and I had agreed upon. “It could be dangerous if you knew too much. Once you know, there’s always the chance that the secret will leak out. The safest thing is for you to simply vanish into thin air, with no preparation, no prior warning. Do you understand?” R nodded. “Then you can trust me. There’s nothing to worry about and I’ll take care of everything.”

“It seems you’ve got yourself mixed up in something quite dangerous on my account.”

My manuscript was still spread out on the table. R’s fountain pen and my pencil were lined up next to each other. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and slowly looked up at me. He didn’t seem particularly upset; in fact, the look on his face was almost peaceful. The failing light in the courtyard threw shadows around his eyes that made his expression appear somewhat sad.

“No, it’s just that I want to go on writing novels for you for a long time to come, and I need you as my editor.” I tried to smile, but my mouth felt numb, so I hurried on with my instructions. “This is the plan. The day after tomorrow, on Wednesday, come to the ticket gate at Central Station at eight o’clock in the morning. I know that doesn’t give you much time, but it has to be Wednesday, and there isn’t really anything you can do to get ready. You just need to come by yourself, dressed to go to work, and make sure you fit everything you’ll need in your briefcase. If there are things you want later, I can always get them from your wife and bring them to you. When you get to the station, I want you to buy the business newspaper at the kiosk and read it in front of the crêpe shop just to your right after you leave the ticket gate. The shop will still be closed at that hour, but don’t worry about it. Before long, an old man will approach you. He’ll be wearing corduroy pants and a jacket and carrying a paper bag from a bakery. That will be the sign. You shouldn’t speak to him, but once you’ve made eye contact, you should follow him. That’s the plan.”

It was raining on Wednesday morning. A deluge that seemed to threaten to inundate the whole island and send it spinning down a whirlpool. When I opened the curtains in my room, I could see nothing but the rain splashing against the window.

I didn’t know whether the rain would be good or bad for our plan. On the one hand, it might help us evade the eyes of the Memory Police, but I was also worried that it would impede the movement of R and the old man. In either case, there was nothing for me to do but wait.

I turned up the heater and warmed the whole house. Then I boiled a kettle of water. Finally, I took to checking the street every few minutes from the window in the hallway, in order to be prepared to unlock the door as soon as they appeared. Normally, it took about twenty-five minutes to walk from the station, but there was no telling how long it would take in this downpour.

At 8:25, I suddenly began to feel as though the hands of the clock had slowed. I stood in the hallway and looked back and forth between the window and the clock on the wall in the dining room. The windowpane was cloudy with condensation, so from time to time I had to wipe it with the sleeve of my sweater, which soon became damp in turn.

But the only thing I could see were sheets of rain, obscuring everything—the trees in the yard, the fence, the telephone poles, the sky. Thick, suffocating sheets of rain. I prayed that R and the old man would manage to make their way through. It had been a long time since I had prayed for anything.

It was after 8:45 by the time they finally arrived. I unlocked the door and they all but fell into the hallway, soaked to the skin and grasping each other’s shoulders. Their hair was plastered to their faces and their clothes were dripping. Their shoes made a squishy sound. I led them into the dining room near the heater.

They were still clutching the business newspaper and the bag from the bakery that had served as their signs, though both were now limp as dishrags. The rolls in the bag had gone soggy and were completely inedible.

R took off his coat, sank into a chair, and closed his eyes. He sat, breathing quietly. The old man, seemingly determined to warm R as quickly as possible, moved the heater closer and went to find a blanket to put around his shoulders. Drops fell to the floor wherever he went, and soon steam was rising from both of their bodies.

We sat for a while, staring at the heater and listening to the sound of the rain. I’m sure we had things we wanted to say, but it seemed as though something weighed on our chests, preventing the words from coming out the moment we opened our mouths. The flickering flame, visible through the round window in the heater, was bright red.

“It all went exactly according to plan,” the old man said eventually, as if speaking to himself. “The rain covered everything.”

R and I looked up at the same moment.

“I’m so glad you’re both safe,” I said.

“I was worried we might be followed,” said the old man, “so we took the long way around.”

“So does this mean that my hiding place is your house?” R asked. “I would never have guessed.”

We were all whispering, as though something bad might happen if we disturbed the silence of the room.

“We aren’t working with any of the underground organizations. We did this on our own,” I said. “Oh, but I should introduce you. This is our collaborator, a friend of my family since long before I was born.”

R and the old man reached out from under their blankets and shook hands.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” R said, but the old man just shook his head.

“Let me make you something hot to drink,” I told them, going to the kitchen to warm the cups and brew a stronger pot of tea than usual. We drank slowly, silent again for a time.

Eventually, they began to dry out. R’s hair grew soft again, and the color returned to the old man’s cheeks. The rain continued to fall in heavy sheets. When I was sure that all three cups were empty, I told R it was time to show him to his room.

R let out a little gasp of surprise as I rolled up the carpet and lifted the trapdoor.

“Like a cave floating in the sky,” he murmured.

“It’s a bit tight, I know, but at least you’ll be safe here. No one can see you from outside, and there’s not much chance of them hearing you either.”

The old man and I climbed down the ladder, followed by R, and, as we’d foreseen, with three of us in the room, it seemed quite crowded. R set his heavy, bulging briefcase on the bed. Under normal circumstances it would have contained manuscripts and galley proofs, but now, I suspected, it contained even more important papers.

The old man explained how to use the heater, the toilet, our improvised intercom, and various other features of the room. R nodded in response to each item.

“I’m afraid it isn’t very comfortable, but as long as our friend is here to help us, everything should be fine. He can make just about anything you could need.” I patted the old man on the shoulder as I said this.

He blushed and rubbed the stubble of white hair on his head. R simply smiled.

Once these explanations were finished, the old man and I decided to leave R alone in his room. He had been under tremendous strain and needed to rest. I thought as well that he might need time and privacy to process such a sudden separation from his family.

“I’ll bring you lunch at noon,” I told him, stopping for a moment on the ladder. “But if you need anything in the meantime, just call on the intercom.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I closed the trapdoor and unrolled the rug, but for a moment I stood there, frozen, staring down at my feet. I recalled the sound of his voice thanking me, a voice that seemed to rise slowly up as though from the depths of a swamp.