Philippe Claudel - The Investigation

All the same, one detail gave him pause. Was that really the same Hotel? The same sign? Something had changed. The Hotel was in its place on the other side of the street, between two buildings he also positively recognized. On the other side of the street. On the other si—! But of course! That was what was different. If the Hotel was on the other side of the street, that meant he couldn’t be on that side anymore, which therefore meant that he’d crossed over at some point, and that he was now walking on the side where the entrance to the Enterprise was located! And, yes, there, there it was, on his left, a little farther on, that was the entrance! He could even make out the Guardhouse.

He had to move fast. He had only a few seconds to get as far to the left as he could, slipping sideways across the current of humanity, so that he might escape from the streaming Crowd, leave the mass, and become again a discrete, unique creature. Just a few steps more, a few more yards, he didn’t want to time his exit wrong, he didn’t want to be blocked at the last moment by somebody he hadn’t seen closing up behind him.…

Phew! Made it!

BY DAY, THE GUARDHOUSE LOOKED much less hostile than it did at night. After all, it was just an ordinary building, simple, graceless, almost ugly, and there was nothing military about it. The Investigator didn’t have to buzz the intercom to get a response. By stepping up close to the window and bending forward a little toward the twenty or so concentrically arranged holes that pierced it, he was able to address the Guard — a man neither young nor old, with a full face and thinning hair, dressed in white like a Lab Assistant or a Chemist — who was sitting on the other side of the glass barrier, smiling and waiting.

“Good morning!” said the Investigator, sensing that he was finally going to talk to someone attentive.

“Good morning,” the Guard replied affably.

“I’m the Investigator.”

The Guard didn’t lose his smile, but the Investigator noticed that his eyes had changed. The Guard looked him over. This examination lasted several seconds, at the end of which the Guard consulted a large register that lay open in front of him. Apparently failing to find what he was looking for, he checked the preceding pages, shifting his gaze from line to line with the help of his right index finger. Eventually, he stopped at one of the lines and tapped it three times. “Your arrival was scheduled for yesterday at five p.m.”

“Indeed,” replied the Investigator, “but I was considerably delayed.”

“May I see some identification, please?” the Guard asked.

“Of course!” The Investigator thrust his hand into his inside jacket pocket, found nothing, rummaged in his other pockets, began to grow pale, patted his raincoat, and then suddenly remembered that he’d given his identity papers as well as his credit card to the Giantess, who had deposited them in the Hotel safe while he looked on. On leaving the Hotel that morning, he’d completely forgotten to ask for them back. “I’m very sorry,” he said, “but I’ve left everything at my Hotel. The Hope Hotel, you must know it, it’s only a few hundred yards from here. On the other side of the street.”

These words caused a darkening of the Guard’s heretofore pleasant expression. He seemed to reflect for a while. The Investigator tried to maintain his own broad smile, as if doing so would convince the other of his honesty.

“Please give me a few seconds,” the Guard said. He closed the register, switched off the microphone that linked him to the exterior, picked up a telephone, and dialed a number. His call must have been answered pretty quickly, because the Investigator could see him talking. The conversation went on and on. The Guard opened the register again, placed his finger on the line where the time of the Investigator’s arrival was recorded, engaged in a lengthy discussion, appeared to reply to numerous questions, scrutinized the Investigator carefully, and then, finally, hung up and switched the microphone back on. “Someone will come for you,” he said. “You can wait in front of the security barrier on your right.”

The Investigator thanked the Guard and directed his steps to the indicated area.

The chevaux-de-frise, the rolls of barbed wire, the portcullises, and the chicanes had all been removed. Only a large, automated metal barrier blocked the entrance of the Enterprise. A Security Officer stood near the barrier. He was wearing a gray paramilitary uniform and a peaked cap of the same color, and numerous objects hung from the broad belt that girded his waist: a nightstick, a paralyzing-gas grenade, an electric pistol, a pair of handcuffs, a bunch of keys, a portable telephone, a pocket flashlight, a knife in its sheath, and a walkie-talkie. His other equipment included an earphone and a little microphone attached to the lapel of his military jacket.

When he saw the Investigator approaching the barrier, the Security Officer moved from his position and took a few slow steps forward to block the newcomer’s passage, but the earphone and little microphone started sizzling at once. The Security Officer stopped, froze, listened to what he was being told, and replied simply: “Got it.”

The Security Officer, who stood two heads taller than the Investigator, gazed absently at the distant roofs and ignored him. Once again, the Investigator felt uneasy. “Really, what must I look like?” he wondered. He was unshaven; he had a sizable swollen wound on his forehead; his nose was raw and running nonstop; the torn pocket of his thoroughly wrinkled raincoat was hanging down like a flap; his shoes, still wet, resembled small wads of badly tanned animal skin; and no matter how much he tugged at the lapels of his raincoat, his efforts to conceal the two big coffee stains on his jacket and trousers were in vain.

“A bum, that’s what,” he thought, answering his own question. “Maybe even a drunk — me, a drunk, when I hardly ever touch alcohol.” The Security Officer’s outfit, by contrast, was impeccable: no wrinkles, no stains, no torn fabric. His perfectly polished boots mocked the snowflakes that fell on them. His face was closely shaven. Everything about him was clean and new, as though he’d just come out of a box.

“What weather!” the Investigator said with a little smile, but the Security Officer made no reply. This didn’t so much offend the Investigator as hurt his feelings. Did he count for so little? Was he so utterly insignificant? The effects of the two tablets he’d washed down with the awful coffee were fading. A great weariness invaded his whole body, while at the same time each of his bones became a focal point of pain. His head was caught in a vise, and the jaws of the vise, cranked tighter and tighter by a pitiless hand, were gradually crushing his temples. He was hot. He was cold. He shivered, sweated, sneezed, coughed, choked, and coughed again.

“Keep your germs to yourself, we really don’t need them right now!”

THOROUGHLY OCCUPIED IN SNEEZING, he hadn’t heard the approach of the man who’d just addressed him so peremptorily.

“Are you the Investigator?”

The Investigator nodded almost reluctantly, blowing his nose at the same time.

“I’m the Guide. I’ll be escorting you to the Manager’s office. Don’t be offended if I don’t shake your hand. Here, this is for you.”

The Guide looked as though he might be the Investigator’s age. Of about middle height, with a slightly fleshy face and not much hair, he was wearing an elegant gray suit. He handed the Investigator a bag in which the latter found various objects: a long white coat, a hard hat of the same color, a pen, a key ring adorned with a photograph of an old man with a mustache — the same man whose framed photograph hung on the wall of his Hotel room? — a notebook and a little plastic flag, both bearing the logo of the Enterprise, and a badge with the words “External Element” printed in bold type.