The Memory Police

Chapter 20

As the old man had predicted, I soon found another job. The head of the neighborhood association made an introduction for me at a trading company run by an acquaintance.

“They sell spices in bulk. It’s not a large firm, but the owner is an interesting man and the offices are nice enough. He’s apparently looking for a typist.”

“A typist?” I said.

“That doesn’t interest you?”

“I don’t have much experience, just a bit when I was at school. I’m not sure I’d be good enough…”

I repeated the word “typist” silently to myself several times. It seemed to have a special significance.

“Not to worry,” he said. “You can learn as you go. The owner said as much. At any rate, I’m sure you’ll have various other duties to start.”

“I’m very grateful, and I apologize for putting you to so much trouble.” I bowed, but all the while the word “typist” repeated itself in my head. I tried to recover my faded memory, but it remained distant and vague.

“Not at all! Don’t mention it. I was just connecting the dots. We all have to pull together after a disappearance.” He smiled with satisfaction.

And so I came to work at a spice company, and the rhythm of my days changed drastically. I woke early in the morning, prepared the food, water, and other things R would need during the day, and carried them all to the hidden room. In the evening, when I got home from work, I would check to see that R was all right before taking Don for a walk. After that, I would start making dinner. At first, it bothered me to be away from the house for ten hours a day. Inevitably, I imagined the worst happening while I was gone, a fire or a robbery or R suddenly falling ill—or another visit from the Memory Police—and besides that, I was much busier now than I’d been before. It proved to be fairly difficult to juggle my job, watching over R, caring for Don, and managing the house, and I rarely had time to visit the old man on the boat. But the days passed without any major problems.

The spice company was a pleasant, almost homey place. My duties included dusting, answering the phone, and some basic filing. And I was lent a portable typewriter and a typing manual and asked to practice at home. It was the first time I had worked outside the house, but it seemed as though I would manage well enough. The one thing that bothered me, however, was the strong smell of the spices that came from the warehouse behind the office. The bitter, medicinal odor clung to me like the stench of rotting fruit.

On the other hand, one of the perks of the job was that I received gifts of food from some of our clients, like sausage and cheese and corned beef, which had long since vanished from the markets and were an enormous treat for the old man, R, and me.

I understood why I had reacted so strongly to the word “typist” when I reread the manuscript I’d given to R for safekeeping, though in point of fact I was no longer capable of reading a novel, much less writing one. I could read the words out loud, but I could no longer understand them as parts of a coherent story with a plot to connect them. They were just characters on the manuscript page, and they evoked in me no feeling or atmosphere, no recognizable scene.

As I traced the words one by one and came at last to that word, I remembered that my novel was about a typist. But the discovery only made it clearer that writing the rest would not be as easy as R had suggested.

On Friday and Saturday evenings, I sat down at my desk. Putting aside the paperweight, I carefully examined the manuscript, beginning from the first page. But the work never went smoothly. I tried various strategies—reading the same line several times, staring at a single word, running my eyes over the words at a steady speed—but nothing seemed to help. By the fifth or sixth page, I had invariably lost the will to continue. Then I would flip through the pages until I came upon a section that looked promising and try the same thing again, but the results were always the same. In the end, I was so weary that the mere sight of the lines on the paper made me dizzy.

But if continuing what I’d already written was impossible, it occurred to me that perhaps I could write something new, and so I took out a fresh sheet of paper. To warm up my fingers, I tried writing a, i, u, e, o. Then, taking care to match the size of the characters to the lines on the paper, I continued with ka, ki, ku, ke, ko. And as I wrote these meaningless characters, I began to feel a certain satisfaction in the knowledge that I was fulfilling R’s hopes for me, even in the tiniest way. But when I erased the characters and the blank lines spread out in front of me, my fingers grew numb and my anxiety returned with the realization that I had no idea what to write.

What had I written? I asked myself. At night, I would try to recall anything at all about those moments, seated at my desk, when I had been searching for words. The typewriter had sat at the edge of the desk, watching me in silence. Fortunately, my coworkers at the spice company had not said much about my typing practice, since I was making little progress. I would tap the keys at random, producing a stream of metallic clicks. In these moments, I would suddenly have the feeling that a story was coming back to me and I would reach out instinctively to seize it. But there was nothing for me to hold. When I could no longer stand to stare at the blank page, I would type a, i, u, e, o, and then, imagining that I would now be able to write something, I would erase them again. But of course nothing came to me, and I would return to a, i, u, e, o. And the process would repeat itself. In the end, all that was left was a torn page, from the many times I’d erased what I’d written.

“You shouldn’t force the memories. Just try to untangle them slowly,” R told me. I had apologized for handing him a blank sheet of paper, but his response was encouraging and showed no sign of disappointment.

“I’ve tried, but I’m afraid it’s useless.”

“You shouldn’t say that. You’re the same person now that you were when you wrote novels. The only thing that’s changed is that the books have been burned. But even if paper itself disappears, words will remain. It will be all right, you’ll see. We haven’t lost the stories.”

He took me in his arms, as he always did now. The bed was soft and warm. His skin was growing whiter and whiter, and his muscles seemed more visible than ever. His hair had grown out and hung down over his eyes.

“The flames burned all night. So long that I thought the night itself might never end. And everyone stayed on to stare at the fire, even after they’d burned all their books. The sound of burning paper filled the air, and yet, for some reason, I felt as though I were surrounded by total silence. As though my eardrums were frozen. This was the first time a disappearance seemed like a solemn ceremony. The old man and I just stood there holding hands, because it felt as though I would be sucked into the flames if someone didn’t hold me back.”

I told R every detail of what had happened that night. Once I opened my mouth, things came tumbling out one after the other and I couldn’t stop myself. The difficulty we’d had pulling the cart, the red glow on the playground equipment in the park, the hat that had fallen in the mud, the ruined library, the bird… But no matter how long I talked, I couldn’t help feeling that I was leaving out the most important thing—whatever that was. He listened attentively to every word.

When at last I grew tired of talking, I heaved a deep sigh and looked up. He seemed to be staring far into the distance. Behind him I could see the empty plate that had held his dinner, with a single pea remaining in the middle. The books that had escaped the flames were neatly arranged on the shelf above.

“I suppose a great deal has changed in the outside world since I’ve been here,” he said as he gently stroked my hair. I could feel his voice filling the space between our bodies.

“Does my hair have an odd smell?” I asked him.

“Odd how?”

“Like spices.”

“No, it has a wonderful smell, like shampoo.” He ran his fingers through it.

“I’m glad,” I murmured.

Then he read aloud my story about the typist. To me, it sounded like a fairy tale from a distant land.

“Does it tire you out to be doing something you’re not used to?” asked the old man as he arranged the teapot and cups on the table. He was wearing the sweater I had given him over a thick shirt, with wool slippers on his feet.

“No, everyone is very nice to me,” I told him, “and I’m enjoying the work.”

We were meeting for tea on the boat for the first time in a while. What’s more, we were having pancakes. I had found eggs and honey, both great rarities, and we cooked together. We divided the batter in thirds and made three cakes, one of which I’d wrapped in a napkin to take to R.

Don, who had been dozing under the sofa, must have smelled the pancakes, since he appeared suddenly and began to nudge the tablecloth with his muzzle.

“Typing is hard, but I enjoy practicing. As soon as your fingers start to move, a sentence appears almost effortlessly—it’s like magic.” The old man poured the honey over the pancakes, careful not to waste a single drop.

“And the business seems to be going well. Herbs grow in the least bit of soil, and you can harvest them even with all this snow. Food is so hard to get that people are selling half-rotten meat and vegetables, and everyone wants something fragrant to kill the smell—so my coworkers are expecting big bonuses.”

“That’s good,” said the old man as he lifted the lid on the pot to see whether the tea had finished steeping.

We chatted about this and that as we sipped our tea, laughed at Don’s antics, and slowly ate the pancakes. Cutting just one bite at a time, we let it dissolve on our tongues in order to appreciate every bit of the sweetness, and as the remaining pieces of pancake grew smaller, so did the size of the bites we cut.

We each gave a bite to Don, who inhaled them with no thought for their sweet flavor and then stood looking at us expectantly, as though unwilling to believe that there was nothing more.

Light poured in through the windows, bright enough to make you think spring might be just around the corner. The sea was calm, and the boat, which was usually creaking as it rocked on the waves, was quiet. The great pile of snow melting on the dock shone in the sunlight.

When we’d finished eating, the old man went to find the music box hidden in the bathroom. He set it on the table and we listened together. As always, it faithfully repeated its tune, over and over. We stopped chatting, sat up straight, and closed our eyes. I had no idea where or how one was supposed to listen to a music box, but I had decided arbitrarily that closing my eyes would enhance the effect R had hoped it would induce in us.

The melody that flowed from the box was simple but pure and sweet. That much I could feel. But I had no confidence that it would be able to check the exhaustion that was overtaking my soul. Because once it had been sucked beneath the surface of that bottomless swamp, it left no trace at all, no ripple, no fleck of foam.

Don, too, eyed the music box with some interest. Each time we would rewind the mechanism and the music would start again, his ears would twitch and he would back away, belly pressed to the floor. It seemed as though he was barely able to contain his curiosity, but when I picked it up and held it in front of his nose, he ran for cover between the old man’s legs.

“How has your… novel been going?” he asked, after finally closing the lid of the music box. Even pronouncing the word had apparently become difficult for him.

“I’m trying,” I told him, “but it’s not going very well.”

“It’s difficult when something has disappeared. To tell the truth, I feel a kind of emptiness every time I wind the spring on this box. I try to tell myself that this time I might discover something new, but I’m always disappointed. Still, it’s a precious present so I force myself to wind it up again.”

“I know. I put a fresh sheet of paper on my desk, but no matter how long I stare at it nothing comes to me. I don’t know where I am or where I want to go… as though I’m lost in a thick fog. Then I tell myself I’ll find a way around it and I turn to my machine and just start typing. I have a typewriter I borrowed from work on my desk. They are beautiful things, when you look at them. Complex yet delicate, quite lovely. Just like a musical instrument. Which is why I listen for the sound the levers make as they move the keys, hoping for something that will connect to my novel… but nothing seems to help.”

“Those terrible flames would paralyze anyone—it seemed like the whole island was burning…”

“I thought I could hear the sound of my memory burning that night.”

Don gave a little yawn. We hadn’t realized it, but he had been moving a bit at a time to keep himself in the warm rays of the sun.

We could hear the voices of children in the distance; no doubt they were delighted by the first nice day in a long time. Some men in work clothes were playing catch in front of the warehouse on the dock.

“Still…,” I continued, “why do you suppose I thought of writing a story about a typist? I’d barely ever used a typewriter or had any friends who were typists. It’s strange.”

“Is it possible to write about something in a novel even if you’ve never experienced it?” The old man looked a bit skeptical.

“I suppose it is. Even if you haven’t seen or heard about something, it seems you can just imagine it and then write it down. It doesn’t have to be exactly like the real thing; it’s apparently all right to make things up or even lie. At least that’s what R says.”

“Even lie?”

The old man man’s eyebrows twitched, as though he was growing more and more confused.

“That’s right. Apparently no one blames you for lying in a novel. You can make up the story out of nothing, starting from zero. You write about something you can’t see as though you can see it. You make up something that doesn’t exist just by using words. That’s why R says we shouldn’t give up, even if our memories disappear.”

I tapped my fork on my empty plate. Don seemed to be dozing, his head resting on his front paws. Their break over, the men who had been playing catch walked back toward the warehouse, their gloves dangling in their hands.

“I’m not sure whether I should be asking this,” the old man said after staring at the sea for a moment. “But you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Unsure how to answer, I reached down and put my arms around Don’s neck. The dog’s eyes opened with annoyance, and he let out a sound, half cough and half burp. Then he slipped out of my embrace, ran once around the cabin, and came back to the same sunny spot.

“I suppose,” I said, my tone intentionally ambiguous. “But do you think he’ll ever be able to come out of hiding? Do you think he’ll be able to see his wife and child again? I doubt it. I think he’ll be able to live only in the hidden room. His soul is too dense. If he comes out, he’ll dissolve into pieces, like a deep-sea fish pulled to the surface too quickly. I suppose my job is to go on holding him here at the bottom of the sea.”

“I understand,” the old man said, nodding, his eyes staring at his hands.

Don, apparently hoping to nap a bit more, rubbed his paws on his jaw and then stretched out with a satisfied air.

Just then, a terrible noise rumbled through the heavens. We hopped up instinctively and braced our hands on the table. Don jumped to his feet.

The boat began to rock violently. The dresser, the dish cabinet, the radio, the lamp, the pendulum clock—everything in the cabin crashed down around us.

“Earthquake!” the old man cried.