Philippe Claudel - The Investigation

The problem was that the Investigator couldn’t perceive any way out. He had no blessed idea about how to escape from the world he was in, even though it was necessarily, indubitably false, totally oneiric, utterly unlike life. Real life couldn’t be this bewildering, he thought, it couldn’t throw you together with characters as disturbing as the ones who’d been having their fun with him since the previous evening, taking pleasure in starving him, battering him, disorienting him, stringing him along, crushing him, frightening him. But what if …? What if …? Maybe life — which up until that moment he’d experienced as a monotonous and pleasantly boring sequence of repetitions, without surprises — maybe life, considered from a certain perspective and in certain circumstances, entailed unforeseen, harrowing, or even tragic accidents.

The street was empty, as it had been the previous evening. The vehicles and the throngs of pedestrians had all disappeared, which hardly surprised him, and that was what he found truly amazing: He wasn’t surprised anymore. He told himself he was starting to adopt the illogical logic of his nightmare. This didn’t assuage his hunger or lower his fever or mend his raincoat or relieve his immense fatigue, but he felt a little better all the same. He reasoned that if his thoughts were patterning themselves after things that had happened to him and would no doubt go on happening to him, then he’d probably be better able to bear them, just as a man who’s climbing up to high altitudes eventually becomes accustomed to the lack of oxygen.

Despite his great exhaustion and his weakened state, he crossed the street in a few seconds. The ease with which he did this made him snigger, remembering the difficulty he’d had that very morning getting to the entrance of the Enterprise. He headed for the Hotel, whose sign was trying to light up. The effort lasted a few seconds before the sign crackled wretchedly and then went out, only to begin a new attempt, doomed to failure like the others. The street was covered with snow, and the only tracks in it were his. This seemed to him proof that what he’d felt before was true: The snow was a dream; he was dreaming the street. It couldn’t possibly be unmarked by vehicle tracks and untrodden by pedestrian traffic, for the City was densely populated, as he’d verified for himself that morning, when hundreds of cars and thousands of people had clogged the street. He was, therefore, dreaming.

But there were holes in his reasoning, and he was seized by doubt. He saw that he was hedging his bets between dream and reality, choosing one or the other, whichever suited him, to explain events. His lovely nightmare theory fell apart. There was, alas, only one reality, and he was stuck in it up to the neck, like a wooden stick in a barrel of molasses. A few minutes earlier, his morale had begun to recover, but now it collapsed, a fragile house of cards. His headache was very bad again.

He was exhausted when he pushed open the door of the Hotel. The Giantess was behind the reception counter. Upon seeing him, she said, “You were in room 14, correct?”

The Investigator couldn’t utter so much as a word. He contented himself with a nod of his head, wondering what might be the significance of that past-tense verb. What register had he been expunged from? What list had he been crossed off of? And why? As before, the Giantess was wearing her pink terry-cloth bathrobe, which totally enveloped her massive body. The Investigator felt tiny in her presence. Despite his cold and the few yards that still separated him from the desk, he was able to detect the big woman’s sweet, sweaty scent.

“We’ve been obliged to change your room. The Management apologizes sincerely for any inconvenience. Your new room is number 93. Second floor. Your bag’s already inside.” The Giantess placed a very small key on the counter in front of the Investigator. He was about to take the key, but she held it down with her index finger. “One more thing,” she said, using her free hand to place a document on the counter. “I need you to sign this bill for the property destruction you caused this morning.”

“Property destruction …?”

“An official report transmitted to me specifies damages in the ladies’ restroom on this floor. I’m simply passing the bill on to you. I make no judgment in regard to your presence in a ladies’ room.…”

The Giantess had spoken the last sentence in a lighter tone, a tone full of insinuation. The Investigator nearly launched into explanations, but then he changed his mind. What good would explaining do? He took hold of the bill and the pen the Giantess had placed on the counter and prepared to sign. But when he saw the total amount written on the bill, he recoiled. “This can’t be possible!” he exclaimed. “All these charges for a torn towel? I refuse to sign such a document!”

He slammed the pen down on the counter, but this had no effect on the Giantess, who continued to watch him impassively. The Investigator found her steady gaze unsettling. He took up the bill again and examined it in greater detail. It contained fifteen items: replacement of destroyed towel, replacement of destroyed towel dispenser, replacement of destroyed screws, replastering of damaged wall, repainting of damaged wall, meals for three workers (plasterer, painter, carpenter), transportation expenses for said three workers, cleanup of worksite, disinfection of toilets, initial report fee, certified statement fee, general expenses tax, secondary expenses tax, taxes tax, taxes tax tax .

“That’s simply robbery! First your fake Policeman makes me waste my entire morning, and now you’re telling me I—”

“What fake Policeman?” the Giantess asked, interrupting him.

Summoning all his remaining strength, the Investigator fought back the cloying nausea that rose to his lips, swallowed hard, and pressed his hands against his temples to lessen the pain that was beating inside his skull with the persistence of a percussionist. “I’m sure you know him better than I do. The man who lives in that broom closet there,” the Investigator said, pointing to the small room where the Policeman had taken his statement.

The Giantess looked at the door of the storage room and then at the Investigator again. “I can’t go on,” he said. “I have to get some sleep. We’ll see about all this tomorrow. Just give me back my ID and credit card.…”

“Where are they?”

Choking with panic, the Investigator said, “What do you mean? They’re in that box there! You confiscated them from me last night and put them in that box! Remember?”

The Giantess froze, appeared to stop breathing, and kept staring fixedly at him. “I don’t remember,” she said. “I don’t remember anything when my sleep is interrupted at 3:14 a.m. Moreover, ‘confiscated’ isn’t the proper word. As you no doubt recall, the Rules—”

“Paragraph eighteen, line C …”

“Exactly. We’ve already had enough problems with clients who take a room without being able to pay for it.”

“Give me back what belongs to me … please,” the Investigator implored her, putting all his distress into his words. The Giantess seemed to be shaken by his plea. She hesitated and then slowly slid her right hand down the front of her nightgown between her breasts, felt around for a moment, and pulled out a golden key. She slipped it into the lock on the front of the little box, gave it three complete counterclockwise turns, opened the metal door, and looked inside.

“Well? What was it you wanted to get back?” she asked in a mocking tone. The Investigator didn’t take his eyes off the box.

It was tragically empty.

THE INVESTIGATOR ALMOST LOST HIS GRIP for good.