The Memory Police

Sometimes it strikes me as strange that I don’t hate him more. I should curse him and beat him, find any way I can to do him harm, though I know it would do no good. After all, he deceived me, stole my voice, and shut me up in this place.

But for all that, I don’t really hate him. In fact, when he shows me the occasional kindness, I even feel a certain affection for him: when he turns the handle of my spoon to make it easier to pick up, or wipes away soap bubbles that threaten to get into my eyes, or untangles my hair from a zipper as I’m changing my clothes. Compared to the truly horrible things he has done, these are trifles barely worth mentioning. And yet, when I see his fingers working just for my benefit, I can’t help feeling a kind of gratitude. I know it’s foolish, but that’s my honest reaction and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Perhaps these feelings are proof that I’m becoming more and more attached to this room. Things I felt in the outside world have faded away here, transformed into emotions more suited to this place.

I find, too, that my eyesight has recently started to fail. The mountain of typewriters, the bed, the bell, the various items in the drawer of the desk—all of it appears only dimly, as though shrouded in a dark veil. As does the outside world, glimpsed through the crack by the clock. Even on a bright and sunny afternoon, the grass in the church garden seems gray and hazy, the people gathered there indistinguishable from the shadows.

As a result, I’m forced to move with added care no matter what I’m doing—even things as simple as washing my face or changing my clothes. I find I’m constantly tripping over the tools used to care for the clock or bumping into the chair. I’m particularly tense when he’s here. Not that he gets angry when I show my clumsiness. But by the same token he never helps me, content always to watch in silence with that peculiar smile on his face. A cold smile, like the stroke of an icy brush down my side.

Though my eyes get progressively weaker, for some reason I can always see him with great clarity. I can see every movement his fingers make, while everything else is dim and vague.

One day, something unusual happened. Not long after he had gone down to teach a class of beginners, I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the tower stairs. They were slower and more deliberate than his, and they seemed to stop on one of the landings below, as if hesitating, before starting up again.

I wonder who this could be. Do they intend to come all the way up here?

I had no idea what to do. Was this person a friend or an enemy? What sort of relationship did she—for the sound of the footsteps made me certain it was a woman—have to my captor? Did she know about me? In just a few seconds, these questions ran through my head, throwing me into a state of confusion. I realized that in all this time no one but he had entered this room. Nor had it ever once occurred to me, while I was a student, that I might want to ascend to the top of the tower.

From the sound of the footsteps I was sure not only that the person approaching was a woman but that she was young. The tapping on the wooden stairs, like the pecking of a bird’s beak, suggested that she was wearing high heels.

Her footsteps seemed to convey her hesitation, as though she was fearful of what she might find at the top of this endless staircase. As she approached the clock room, the interval between each step lengthened. Perhaps she was weary, rather than confused or afraid, since the stairway to the clock tower was narrow and steep and terribly long. In any case, she had at last reached the door.

She knocked three times. I was sitting on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees. I had never noticed the clear, dry sound of the old wooden door, since he never knocked but made his appearance after a great rattling of the keys on his ring.

I realized this might be my best chance to escape. A student in the typing class had come all the way up here, perhaps having heard suspicious noises or perhaps out of simple curiosity. Even though I couldn’t call out, I could run to the door and knock on it to let her know of my existence. Then, surely, she would go and find help in the church or call the police. She would force the lock or take some other action to rescue me. And I would rejoin the outside world.

But I remained crouched on the floor, unable to move a muscle. My heart was pounding, my lips trembling. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

Hurry now! If you aren’t quick she’ll go away!

In my head I screamed these words to myself. But something held me back.

No! Keep still! How can you explain this to her? Would she believe you? And how would you even tell her? It’s not just words you lack. Your eyes and ears, every part of your body has been deformed to fit this room—that is, to fit his purposes. And even if she did help you, do you really believe you’d get back all the things you’ve lost?

Covering my ears with both hands, I hid my face in my lap, held my breath, and prayed the girl would give up and go back down the stairs. I knew now that I lacked the courage to rejoin the outside world.

I’m not sure how long I stayed that way. She jiggled the lock and turned the handle, and then, with a sigh, she moved away from the door. The echoes of her footsteps receded, spiraling down the staircase. I was still unable to move, even after they had long since vanished altogether, frozen by the fear that the slightest noise would bring her running back up the stairs.

It was not until evening that I found myself wanting to peek out from behind the clock and look down on the churchyard. Needless to say I was unable to pick out the woman who had knocked on my door. In the garden below, the students leaving the afternoon classes mingled with those arriving for the evening. But they were no more than shadowy masses, my weakened eyes unable to distinguish their features or clothing or shoes. The only thing that was clearly visible—indeed painfully etched on my retinas—was his form as he sat on a bench, chatting pleasantly with his students.

That night, he appeared, bringing with him more strange articles of clothing, though these were not as elaborate or refined as the earlier ones had been. Like the other garments, these were not the kind of things being worn in the outside world, but the fabrics were more ordinary than usual, there were no decorations of any kind, and the stitching was crude. I found myself feeling disappointed.

“Did someone pay you a visit today?” he asked abruptly. Startled, I dropped the clothes he had just handed to me. How did he know about the woman who had come to the door? If he did know, why hadn’t he stopped her? Why risk revealing such an important secret?… Confused, I looked down at the floor.

“Did someone knock at the door?” he asked. I gave a slight nod. “Then why didn’t you ask her for help?” he added as he began gathering up the clothes I had dropped. “You might have found lots of ways to alert her that you’re here. You could have knocked back, or dragged a chair across the floor, thrown a typewriter against the wall.”

I stood still, unsure how to reply.

“Why didn’t you run away? She could have helped you get out of here, and you would have been free by now.” He reached up to touch my cheek before continuing. “But you did nothing. You stayed here. Why?”

He continued pressing me for a reason, though he knew that I was incapable of providing one. So what was he really seeking? I stood frozen to the spot.

“She’s a new student at the beginner level,” he said, the stream of questions finally coming to an end. “She hasn’t much technique yet, and I don’t even have her typing complete sentences. She just taps out single words, and even then she makes mistakes. But she came to me out of the blue today and asked about the top of the tower. She said that when she was a child she used to be friendly with the old man who tended the clock and she wanted to climb up here again, for old time’s sake, as she put it. I told her I had no objections. That the old man was no longer there and that the room was used for storage, but she was more than welcome to go up and see.”

Why didn’t you stop her? What would you have done if she’d found me?

I stared at him.

“You see, I was absolutely sure. I knew that you were no longer capable of going back out into the world. It would make no difference if someone came knocking at your door. You’ve already been absorbed into this room.”

The word “absorbed” hung for a long while in the air between us. Then I took the clothes from him and changed into them. The fact that these garments were simpler than the others made changing simple, too. I had only to bend over slightly and the material coiled around me as if of its own volition.

“Did she call out from the other side of the door?” he asked. I shook my head. “That’s too bad. I would have liked to have you hear her voice. It’s quite charming. Not beautiful in any classical sense. More unusual and impressive. Like nothing I’ve ever heard—deep resonance in the nasal cavity combined with moisture from the tongue and a wavering tremolo on the lips—sweet enough to melt the eardrums.”

He turned to look at the mountain of typewriters. The lamp that hung from the ceiling was set swaying by a gust of air from the gap around the clock.

“Her progress with her typing lessons is only average. Perhaps not even that. She hunches her back, and she’s constantly mixing up letters. Her fingers are short and stubby, like a child’s, and she hasn’t learned to change the ink ribbon yet. But the instant she opens her mouth, everything around her seems to glow, as if lit from within. As if her voice were some wonderful living thing.”

When he had finished with this speech, he picked me up and carried me to the bed.

What do you plan to do with her? And why are you telling me all this?

I tried to struggle out of his embrace, but the strange clothing made it impossible. He pinned both my ankles with one hand and held me down.

“She needs a great deal more practice with her typing. She needs to develop speed and accuracy. So I can capture her voice. Until it’s completely absorbed and the keys no longer move.”

After that, his visits became much less frequent, and I spent long periods of time alone. The gifts of strange clothing ceased, and the food he prepared was inadequate. Once a day, or even less often, he would leave a plate of cold boiled vegetables and a slice of bread just inside the door and go away again. Without so much as a glance in my direction, without opening the door any more than was necessary to slip in the dish, he left behind no more than the clatter of porcelain.

My eyes and ears became weaker and weaker. My body, cut away from my soul, lay prone on the floor in the shadows of the clock room. When he had cared for me, my body had retained a plump freshness, a certain grace, but now it was just a lump of clay. Were those really my hands? My feet? My breasts? Even I wasn’t certain. If he wouldn’t touch them, they would never come back to life.

He is the only one who comes to see me, here in this room that has absorbed me. But what would I do if he turned his back on me? I trembled just to think about it.

One night I filled the sink with water to soak my legs—in order to be sure they still existed. The water was pure and clear, and it looked extremely cold. I slowly slipped my feet into it, toes first.

But I felt nothing. Just a slight cramping somewhere in my calves. My legs seemed to be floating in air, and I was no longer able to recall how it had felt when they had been real.

Still seated on the edge of the sink, I looked out the little bathroom window. There was a full moon, but its pale glow was of little use to my weak eyes. The city looked like a vast meadow of blurred lights stretching out to the horizon. I tried soaking my hands and face and chest in the water, but the result was the same. My very existence was quickly being sucked away to some remote and inaccessible place.

How long has it been now since he’s visited me? And how long since I’ve eaten anything except the stale bread and jam he brought days ago? It’s too hard now anyway for someone as weak as I am. But my weakness is not because he doesn’t feed me; it’s because I’m being absorbed deeper and deeper into the room. I give up on the bread—which has begun to mold in any case—and merely lick the jam on the spoon from time to time.

I lie in bed and listen, waiting to hear his footsteps climbing the stairs. The slightest creak gives me a start.

He’s coming!

But I’m always disappointed. Deceived by the moaning of the wind or mice scuttling across the floor.

Why doesn’t he come to see me? Why doesn’t he realize that my voice, my body, my sensations, my emotions—everything exists only for him.

Is he giving that other girl a typing lesson at this very moment? He might be touching her fingers, patiently, gently in order to speed the process of capturing her voice.

I close my eyes, realizing that the end is coming soon. Just as I did when I lost my voice, I pray it will come without pain or sadness. But I suppose there’s no need to worry. It must feel much like a typewriter key falling back into place after rising for a moment to strike the page.

I hear the sound of footsteps. He’s coming. And behind him, someone else, someone wearing high heels. The two sets of footsteps overlap with each other, blend together as they approach the door. She must be carrying a typewriter. One with keys that no longer move.

I am absorbed silently into the room, leaving no trace. Perhaps I’ll find my voice again, lost so long ago. The footsteps stop. He turns the key.

The final moment has arrived.