The Memory Police

Chapter 23

The next Sunday, I decided to visit my mother’s cabin with the old man, since R had said she might have left more sculptures there that concealed secrets.

I called the place a cabin, but it was really nothing more than a rough hut that she had used in the summer as a place to sculpt. No one had set foot there since her death, and I suspected it would be in ruins after the earthquake.

The old man and I filled our backpacks with canteens of water and our lunch and left the house early in the morning. We took the train to the base of the mountain and then walked an hour along the road by the river, reaching the cabin just before noon.

“This is terrible,” said the old man, resting his backpack on the snow and wiping his face with a towel he had tucked in his belt.

“Worse than I’d imagined,” I added, sitting down on a rock by the river and taking a sip from my canteen.

The cabin was barely recognizable as a building. It was difficult to tell where the door had been, and it looked as though the whole thing would come crashing down at the slightest touch. The roof was caved in from the weight of the snow, the chimney had broken off, and brightly colored mushrooms were growing from the moss that covered the walls.

We decided to eat our lunch and rest for a while before setting to work. But not for too long. We didn’t want to get home late, since the Memory Police tended to take note of anyone lingering outdoors after dark.

We pulled away the boards of what must have been the entrance and made our way inside. The floor was littered with nails and knives and chisels and carving tools and all kinds of sharp objects, and since our path was blocked by a fallen beam, we made our way cautiously, shining a flashlight as we went.

“What’s that?” I called, my voice rising nearly to a shriek. I had spotted a small lump under the worktable—something that seemed different from the rest of the rubble around us, soft and damp, almost slimy, but with spiky bits sticking out here and there, a shape that was melting in on itself… and giving off a terrible stench. The old man directed the flashlight toward it.

“I’m afraid something has died,” he said, his tone neutral.

“But what?”

“A cat, if I had to guess. It probably made its way in here to die.”

On closer inspection we could see that the flesh on the head and body had almost completely dissolved, leaving just the bones. But the paws and ears were clearly those of a cat. We said a silent prayer for an animal we’d never met in life and set to work, trying to avoid looking at it.

The sculptures were scattered about the room, but it was actually fairly easy to tell those that had been designed to conceal something inside. They were more abstract, having been fashioned from scraps of wood and stone arranged in such a way that it would be easy to extract what lay within. A number of them were already broken and their contents spilling out.

We filled our backpacks with sculptures, and when they were full we used the suitcase we had brought along to carry more. There was no time to break open each piece to see what was inside, but we could tell the moment we took one in our hands that it contained something that had disappeared.

We were finished in two hours. Two backpacks and a suitcase completely full. It occurred to us that we should bury the cat, but in the end we left it where it was, knowing that it would soon be interred under the snow and the crumbling cabin. When we reached the riverbank, I stopped, set down the suitcase, and turned to look back at a place I knew I would never visit again.

“Can I carry your bag?” asked the old man.

“No, I’m fine,” I told him, and we set off down the valley for the station.

Since the express train was about to arrive, the waiting room was overflowing with travelers and their luggage—families returning from a day in the country, farmers bringing vegetables to the market in town—everyone seemed ill at ease, as though the station itself were filled with anxiety.

“The train must be late,” I said, shifting the suitcase from one hand to the other.

“No,” said the old man. “They’re checking the bags.”

The Memory Police had just closed the ticket gate and were ordering the passengers to form two lines. Their green trucks were parked around the circular drive in front of the building. They had the station attendants remove the benches from the waiting room. The train had already pulled up to the platform, but there was no sign it was about to leave.

I looked at the old man, my eyes asking him what we should do.

“We have to stay calm,” he murmured under his breath, “and get to the back of the line.”

Surrendering ourselves to the wave of people around us, we gradually retreated through the ranks, arriving at last about ten places from the end. Just in front of us was a farmer shouldering a bamboo basket stuffed with vegetables, canned goods, dried meat, cheese—a mouthwatering supply of food. Behind us were a prosperous-looking mother and daughter carrying suitcases.

The line advanced bit by bit. The Memory Police, guns drawn, kept a careful eye on us as they patrolled the waiting room. It was difficult to see over the crowd, but it seemed that two of the officers were checking luggage and identification papers at the ticket gate.

“They’ve been doing this a lot lately.”

“But they can’t be finding much way out here in the country.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve heard rumors that people are leaving hiding places in town because they think it will be safer up here in the mountains. So the police are beginning to shift their activities as well. They apparently found a man in a cave the other day.”

“But we’re the ones kept waiting. I wish they would hurry up.”

The whispered conversations stopped, and the travelers fell silent whenever the Memory Police passed by.

“They’re not interested in the luggage, just our papers,” murmured the old man as he bent over and pretended to adjust his belt. “Ours are in order, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

And indeed, they seemed to be taking their time examining each person’s identification. They turned over the documents, held them up to the light, repeatedly compared photograph to person, and otherwise checked for fakes, while at the same time matching the identification numbers against their black list. By comparison, the luggage searches took only a moment and were limited to a quick glance inside the opened bags.

Still, the contents of our backpacks and suitcase were not the usual assortment of underwear and sweaters, cookies and makeup, but a collection of objects that concealed things that had long ago vanished from memory, for which even we did not know the names, much less the functions. I tightened the shoulder straps on my pack and gripped the handle of the suitcase. After sitting for so long in the ruined cabin, the objects we had taken must have been shocked when we pulled them out into the world. I could almost sense their fear, coming through the bags.

“Just leave this to me,” said the old man. “You don’t have to say a word.”

I wondered how he was planning to explain three bags filled with odd sculptures. We had, of course, been careful to put the cracked ones deeper in the bags, but if one of the officers were to reach in to search or empty the contents completely, that would be the end of us. There was nowhere to run. My mouth was dry as dust, my tongue glued to the roof.

Our turn drew steadily nearer. The whistle on the train sounded, and those remaining in the line grew even more impatient. The scheduled departure time had long since passed, and dusk was deepening around us. The would-be passengers were annoyed to have their plans interrupted way out here in the middle of nowhere, but I found myself envying them. No matter how important the appointments they might be missing, it was certain that their lives didn’t depend on the outcome of the inspection that was now facing the old man and me.

“Next.” The Memory Police said no more than was absolutely necessary, their faces expressionless. Once the inspection was finished, the passengers buckled their bags and pushed through the ticket gate onto the platform. Just three more people ahead of us. Just two. The old man and I huddled close together.

“How much longer is this going to take? We’re already an hour late.”

The man ahead of us with the overflowing basket of food had spoken up when his turn came, and suddenly the line came to an abrupt halt. The rest of us held our breath, wondering whether he was insane to be addressing the Memory Police that way.

“Do you know who I am?” he continued. “I’m the guy who supplies your dining hall. I have orders to make my delivery to the Memory Police headquarters every Sunday by five o’clock. Here, take a look: my pass, issued by the police. So let’s get this train moving! Right about now, your colleagues back at headquarters will be starting to complain that there’s nothing for dinner. And I’m the one they’re going to blame.”

He had said all this while holding the pass under the nose of one of the officers. Then, just as he finished, the young woman behind us pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, staggered a step, and collapsed.

“Oh dear!” cried her mother. “She’s anemic, and her heart is weak. Someone help me, please!”

The old man immediately passed his bag to me and gathered the girl in his arms. As he did, the people waiting behind us surged forward, curious to know what had happened, and the line turned into a crowd, while the farmer in the front continued his speech.

“All right. The rest of you come forward slowly, but make sure we can see your papers as you pass. When we’ve cleared you, hurry up and get on the train.” With a wave of his hand, the officer who seemed to be in charge dismissed the farmer and ordered us through the checkpoint. My arms were aching from the weight of the three bags, but I fumbled in the pocket of my coat and pulled out my identification as quickly as I could. The old man asked the girl’s mother to retrieve his from his pants pocket. And so it was that the remaining passengers passed through the ticket gate in a single mass—with only a cursory glance at our papers and no luggage inspection at all. Once through, we ran toward the platform, because we’d been ordered to, but also because we were anxious to get away before the Memory Police officers changed their minds. The girl apologized to the old man again and again as he carried her onto the train, and as soon as we had collapsed into seats, the wheels began to turn.

It was after ten o’clock when we finally sat down to dinner that evening. We had parted with the mother and daughter when we changed trains to catch the express into Central Station. From there, we took the bus home, saying barely a word the whole way. The trains and buses were crowded and hardly seemed like the right place for a talk, and we were elated but exhausted from our good fortune at the checkpoint. Even the old man, who was always a tower of strength in a tight situation, seemed almost too tired to sit up.

After we reached the house, we sat, dazed, on the living room sofa for a time, our bags left where we dropped them. We lacked the energy to open them and investigate the contents.

Dinner was little more than a plate of crackers, pickles, and a few slices of an apple that we’d received as thanks from the mother and daughter on the train.

“I’m sorry there’s nothing warm to eat,” I said.

“No, this is perfect,” the old man answered, reaching toward the pickles with his fork. I washed down a dry cracker with a glass of water and stared at the plate without really seeing it. The old man tried several times to skewer a pickle without success, his fork stabbing at the empty air, and just when I thought he had one, he’d miss and hit the plate or the tablecloth instead. Then he tried adjusting his grip on the fork, but that was no better. Finally, he cocked his head and stared at his target with a worried frown, as if trying to swat a nasty insect.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, but he didn’t seem to hear me. “What’s wrong?” I asked again, but he just continued his futile efforts. I could see that his mouth had gone slack and his lips were turning blue. “That’s enough,” I told him. “I’ll get one for you.” I took the fork from his hand, stuck it into a pickle, and lifted it to his mouth.

“Ah, ah, thank you…,” he murmured, as though regaining consciousness.

“Are you feeling ill? Are you dizzy? Numb anywhere?”

I moved closer and rubbed his shoulder, just as he had always done to comfort me.

“No, not at all. I’m just a little tired,” he said, munching on his pickle.