Philippe Claudel - The Investigation

It was a synthetic voice, mechanical, vaguely feminine, agreeable to the ear in spite of a strong foreign accent of indefinable origin. The machine made various sounds — of liquid being drawn up, of valves opening and closing, of suction and expulsion — and then, on the right, a little door slid open, revealing the spout of a kind of percolator. Steam came out of this spout, soon followed by a smooth jet of scalding hot, deliciously fragrant, rich, creamy chocolate, which streamed down before the Investigator’s eyes as he stared at it in dismay, for no plastic cup had appeared to catch the liquid. When the stream came to an end, the artificial voice expressed the wish that the Investigator would enjoy his beverage, and it was only after the machine fell silent again that the plastic cup, with a distinct, ironic “plop,” dropped into position to receive the lost drink. The Investigator, however, had no time for either irritation or despair; sandwich number 32 was on its way.

“You ordered a Peasant sandwich. Please collect it from the delivery box at the bottom front of the dispenser. We hope you enjoy your meal.”

The rotating display rack that held the sandwiches went into motion. It pivoted three times in such a way as to place number 32 in front of a remote-controlled arm, which seized it, removed it from its compartment, and carried it about twelve inches through the air. Then the four pincers at the end of the arm opened and released the Peasant. It fell toward the delivery box, but about eight inches before reaching its goal, it got caught on the tray that featured the number 65 sandwich, the “Ocean”: “A thick, tasty slice of red tuna on a round roll, enhanced with sesame seeds, olive oil, curly endive, onions, and capers.”

The Investigator struck the glass front of the vending machine a few sharp blows with the flat of his hand, but to no avail; the Peasant would not leave the Oceans. He struck the machine harder and harder, took hold of it with both hands, and shook it in every direction, but the only result he obtained was to make the synthetic voice repeat its message, congratulating him on his choice, reminding him that he was about to savor a meal prepared according to the strictest sanitary and dietary norms and in conformity with international Conventions, and wishing him an enjoyable dining experience.

He threw himself to his knees, thrust his arm into the delivery box, twisted his body, shoved his hard hat, which was hindering his movements, high up on his head, and stretched out his hand and his fingers as far as he could, but, alas, despite all his efforts, his impotent middle finger remained a good four inches from the sandwich.

“You should have asked me!”

The Investigator hurriedly yanked his arm out of the machine, like a thief surprised by the police with his hand in an old lady’s purse.

The Guide looked at him and shook his head. “I would have told you it doesn’t work. We’ve called the manufacturer I don’t know how many times, but we can’t make ourselves understood. They’ve outsourced their production unit to Bangladesh, and we don’t yet have anyone on the staff who speaks Bengali. It’s not a problem to reach them by telephone, but then communication turns out to be impossible. Don’t look at me like that — you’re not the first victim, we’ve all been had by this machine. Such a shame, because when it works it’s really a very good thing. Shall we go? The Manager’s expecting you.”

The Guide was already walking toward the stairway. The Investigator got to his feet as quickly as he could, pulled his coat straight, repositioned his hard hat, which was on the point of falling, and followed him. The gurgling in his belly was getting louder. He absolutely had to eat something; if he didn’t, he was sincerely afraid he might faint. The beginning of the climb up the stairs was quite difficult, because his feet kept getting tangled up in his coat. He was forced to grab its skirts with both hands and raise them about eight inches or so, like a bride lifting the tulle cascades of her long-trained gown. He felt totally ridiculous.

“Did you have time to take a look at the informational materials?” the Guide asked.

With a gesture, the Investigator indicated that he had.

“Very instructive, don’t you think? I’m not the person who prepared the dossier for you — I merely supervised the project. I’ve been assigned a Colleague from our Temporary Processing branch, which has undergone a reduction in personnel. He was the one who did the job. It’s too bad he can’t stay with me, but he’s being sent to the Conceptualization Department. A peerless Co-Worker, brilliant, subtle, involved, with a remarkable capacity for synthesizing data; a man utterly representative of the culture of the Enterprise. We need more like him.”

The Investigator thought the best course would be not to reply. Reply to what? In all probability, he and the Guide hadn’t read the same documents; the ones the Guide was talking about must have been switched with those he’d been given, which must previously have been destined for the rubbish bin or the paper shredder.

The helicoid formed by the stairway was excessively harmonious. Though probably useless in terms of efficiency, it gave the person mounting the stairs a rare sensation of light, unencumbered ascent into a space where breaks, angles, and whatever might be pointed, aggressive, or wounding were unknown. The higher he climbed, the closer he got to the central axis, because the distance between it and the stairs steadily diminished, so that in the end the Investigator had the impression that he was turning round and round upon himself without rising any higher, which reinforced his vertigo and made him, for a time, forget his hunger.

“Here we are,” said the Guide.

The two of them were standing in front of a large door made of precious wood. No handle or doorknob was visible.

“Go ahead and knock, the Manager knows you’re coming. As for me, my mission ends here. I don’t think we’ll see each other again, so please accept my best wishes for the rest of your day. I won’t shake your hand.”

The Guide made a bow to the Investigator, who felt obliged to return the bow, lest he seem impolite. The Guide walked away down a narrow corridor and, after a few seconds, disappeared around a bend.

The Investigator checked to make sure his coat was correctly buttoned and his badge properly straight. He readjusted his hard hat, which still had a tendency to slip, and then he knocked on the door: three quick raps. As if by magic, in the most perfect silence, the portal opened. He was greeted by a violently bright light, perhaps a projector, focused on him and blinding him. He blinked and shielded his eyes with his right hand, and then he heard a powerful voice call out, “Come in! Come on in! Enter! Come right in, please! Don’t be afraid!”

ONCE AGAIN, ONE MORE TIME, the Investigator thought about death. Hadn’t he read — he couldn’t remember where — some stories about experiences on the outer limits, about certain people who’d returned from the frontiers of the hereafter? And didn’t they describe an intense, irradiant light and a sort of large tunnel they’d moved through before turning back? The glass cone he’d entered, the strange staircase winding around upon itself, the bright sun pouring each of its dazzling particles of light into his eyes and drowning them, weren’t all those things variations of the big tunnel?

“Please don’t stop so far away! Please, I beg you! Come closer! Do come closer!”

The voice was strong and a little wry. The Investigator reflected that God, if He existed, surely didn’t have a voice like that; it sounded more like a used-car salesman’s voice, or a politician’s.