Stanislaw Lem: The Chain of Chance

“What about the other factors—age, allergy, rheumatism, the sulfur treatments?”

“The greater the difference in behavior before and after the chemical agent has been administered, the more meaningful the test results, A young man is always on the go; one day he’s in Naples, the next day he’s in Sicily. An older man makes an ideal subject, especially if he’s a patient at a health spa, where all his movements—from the doctor’s office to the baths, from the sunroom to the hotel—are likely to be according to schedule, in which case the drug’s effects will be more noticeable…”

“What about the sex factor?”

“It wasn’t a coincidence that all the victims were men. Why? Because they were out to get only men in the first place. This seems crucial to me, because it would seem to point to an underlying political motive. If it’s high-ranking politicians you’re after, then it’s only logical for you to choose men… What do you think?”

“You might have something there…” I admitted, suddenly awed by the prospect. “So you think they might have had people planted in the hotels and selected a certain type of guest matching in age those politicians they were planning to assassinate as part of a coup d’état? Is that what you had in mind?”

“I’m not one for jumping to conclusions. It’s better not to limit the scope of the inquiry… Well now, fifteen or twenty years ago such an idea would have smacked of a gimmicky potboiler or thriller, but today… You see what I mean?”

I saw what he meant, and sighed: I didn’t enjoy the prospect of reopening the investigation. I quickly weighed the pros and cons.

“I have to admit I’m speechless… But there are still quite a few things to be explained. Why only people with allergies? And what about the baldness? Or the time of year—the end of May, beginning of June? Have you got an explanation for these as well?”

“No. At least not an immediate one. In my opinion one should start from the other end, by classifying not the ‘experimental’ victims but the real victims, the ones actually intended. That would mean going down the list of Italy’s political élite. If it turned out that there were a few with allergy problems…”

“I see! In other words, you’re sending me back to Rome. And I’m afraid I’ll have to go; this could be the hottest lead so far…”

“There’s no need for you to leave right away, is there?”

“Tomorrow or the next day at the latest. These are things that can’t be handled over the phone.”

We left it at that. The more I thought over Barth’s theory in my room, the more ingenious I found it. Not only had he put forward a plausible hypothesis, but he’d also managed to get himself off the hook by referring the matter to Rome and side-stepped the whole issue of France’s involvement with compound X. This way it no longer mattered whether Dunant actually succeeded in reconstructing the chemical in the darkroom on Rue Amélie. The more I thought about it, the more positive I became that Barth’s version was right on target. Compound X not only existed but also worked. I was sure of it, just as I was sure that such a method for political assassination couldn’t help but have a tremendous impact—and not only in Italy—an impact even greater than that of a “classic” coup d’état.

I now began to view the case of the eleven with an antipathy bordering on disgust. What was once an inscrutable mystery had now been turned into a struggle for power as crass as it was bloody. Behind all the bizarre appearances was something as trite as political murder.

The next day I headed straight for Rue Amélie. I don’t really know why. But around eleven there I was, walking down the sidewalk and browsing in the shopwindows, though even as I was leaving Garges I was still debating whether I shouldn’t reconsider and go by way of the Eiffel Tower to bid farewell to Paris. But once I reached the boulevards it was too late for that. I didn’t know my way around this part of Paris, so I had trouble finding the street, and it took me a while to find a parking place. I recognized Proque’s apartment even before I could make out the number. It looked more or less as I’d imagined it would, an old apartment building with closed shutters and that old-fashioned trim around the gables with which architects of the last century used to lend their buildings a touch of individuality. The optician’s shop was defunct, the shutter lowered and padlocked. On my way back I stopped in front of a toy store. It was time to shop around for some souvenirs, because I had no intention of taking part in a new investigation; I’d pass on all the information to Randy and then head back to the States. My mind made up, I went inside to buy something for my sister’s boys—as a way of justifying this latest lark of mine. On the shelves our whole civilization was gaudily arrayed in miniature. I looked around for toys I remembered from childhood but found only electronic gadgets, rocket launchers, and miniature supermen shown in judo or karate attack positions. You dope, I told myself, who are the toys for, anyway?

I decided on a couple of plumed parade helmets—the kind worn by the French Guard—and a Marianne puppet, because these were toys you couldn’t get in Detroit As I was heading back to the car with my packages, I spotted a candy store with white curtains on the comer. In the display window was a bronze-colored Vesuvius covered with roasted almonds; I was reminded of the almond peddler I used to pass on my way from the hotel to the beach. I wasn’t sure the boys would like the bitter-tasting almonds, but I went in and bought a couple of bags anyway. How strange, I thought, that of all places Naples should be saying good-bye to me here. Grudgingly I made my way back to the car, as if I still hadn’t given up—given what up? I didn’t know; maybe it was the purity that all along I’d unconsciously attached to the mystery. I threw the packages down on the back seat and, standing there with one hand on the open car door, said good-bye to Rue Amélie. Was there any more reason to doubt Leclerc’s words or Barth’s hypothesis? All my wildest, most private conjectures vanished. But had I ever really believed I would make some startling discovery, that I would splice together all the details in a way no one had ever done before and by some stroke of genius arrive at the hitherto undisclosed truth? Here and there vestiges of the old Paris were still to be seen, but they were destined to be obliterated, wiped out by that army of Molochs at Défense. I had lost all desire to visit the Eiffel Tower. By now Dr. Dunant would already be at work in his porcelain and nickel-plated labs. I had visions of him wrapped in his synthetic turban, eyes aglitter over the distilling apparatus, the coiled air hose trailing behind his plastic cocoon. I was more than familiar with that world: in Houston I had seen the most exquisite labs, the sterile church naves of rocket domes.

I no longer felt like taking in the scenery as I used to do before takeoff, moments before everything collapsed below me. I had such a bad feeling that I jumped behind the wheel, but before I had a chance to start the car my nose began tickling. Angrily I held my breath for a moment; then the sneezing started. Thunder rumbled across the rooftops, the sky was turning darker, and a cloudburst hung overhead. I blew my nose and went on sneezing, but now I was laughing at myself. The blooming season was catching up with me in Paris, and the worst time was always just before a storm. I reached into the glove compartment, but the Plimasine got stuck in my throat and fell apart into bitter-tasting pieces. For lack of anything better, I tore open the bag of almonds and munched on them all the way back to Garges.