Anna Kavan - Guilty

But, all the same, I wasn’t exactly looking forward, as I approached the building, to the coming interview with officials who were universally reported to be tyrannical and capricious — though they probably weren’t half as bad as they were made out to be, I told myself, and entered boldly.

For a moment I was bewildered by the crowd filling the big room and by the dazzling fluorescent lights, which, presumably, were left on the whole day, for the wire-covered windows must have made the interior dark and gloomy at all times. As I grew accustomed to the scene, the details gradually emerged, and I saw a number of officials seated at large desks, like static islands, around which flowed sluggish streams of applicants, barely seeming to move. Evidently I was in for a long wait. This didn’t displease me; it would give me time to form my impressions and to decide which desk to approach.

No one took any notice of me, so I started a tour of inspection, following the narrow irregular spaces between the queues. What first struck me was the uncomplaining patience of all these people, for whom no convenience whatsoever had been provided, not even a wooden bench such as is to be found in the most Spartan waiting-rooms. Yet I observed old people and some who looked ill among them and women with babies in arms. Of course, I blamed the authorities for their lack of consideration; but it seemed to me the public were also to blame for their spineless submission, when, by making a combined protest, they could have got things put right.

After I’d been in the room a few minutes, I found that the light was starting to make my eyes ache. The naked tubes, fixed to the ceiling, diffused a stark white glare which lit up some faces with a ghastly pallor, distorting others by deep black shadows. This dazzle, no doubt, was the reason why all the officials wore eye-shades, extending in front of their faces like the peak of a jockey’s cap, casting a black pointed shade, which gave them all a curious similarity to one another, almost as if they were masked.

I could see how a credulous nervous person expecting horrors might find this effect sinister. But to me it was distinctly absurd, as if these dignified figures were sitting at their desks wearing paper caps made out of crackers. I really refused to be overawed by a man in a paper hat; and, humour again coming to my assistance, I decided, since the disguising shadow made it impossible to choose between them, to attach myself to the queue in front of a man who was distinguishable by his fox-red hair from the rest of his anonymous colleagues.

A slight stir diverted my attention, and, like a comment on what I’d been thinking, two hefty attendants in uniform pushed past with a stretcher, on which an old woman was lying unconscious. Her shabby hat, trimmed with a broken feather, must have fallen off and had been planted on her chest beside a worn black bag and some untidy parcels she’d evidently been holding, so that the general effect was of a collection of rubbish being carried off to the dustbin. I was astonished by the indifference of the bystanders, who listlessly drew back to let the stretcher pass, scarcely glancing at its pathetic burden. Their want of interest seemed to show such a fundamental lack of common humanity that, when I noticed a man near by reacting very differently, literally hopping about with rage and scowling at the attendants, I was glad one person at least shared my own feelings, and couldn’t resist saying to him, ‘Isn’t it outrageous? Why don’t people complain?’

At the sound of my voice, he turned and glared at me , perched on one leg, clutching the other foot with both hands, so that I belatedly realized he was angry because his toe had been stepped on, not on the old woman’s account, as I’d imagined. ‘Who are you? What’s your game?’ he muttered with such venom that I was thankful a sudden forward movement of the crowd separated us, taking him out of my sight. And soon after this it was my turn to stand in front of the official’s desk.

He, seeing I was the last person he’d have to deal with, had already begun to relax, leaning back, pushing his eye-shade up at a rakish angle and rubbing his eyes, revealing an unexpectedly young lively face. ‘Last but not least, eh?’ he said cheerfully, rather as if enjoying a secret joke in which I was involved.

Nothing could have surprised me more than his behaviour and appearance, and I probably showed this, for he seemed to become more amused, while continuing to rub his eyes, exclaiming, ‘Lord, what a day! The weekends are always the worst, but today’s been a record.’

I was tempted to reply that he wasn’t the one to complain; and, as if to some extent reading my thoughts, he went on, ‘I suppose you think mine’s an easy job. But I can tell you it’s abominably tiring, sitting here all day under these infernal lights — you must have noticed how hard they are on the eyes — being badgered by everyone. We do our best to help people. It’s not our fault the accommodation just isn’t available. We’d be only too pleased to bring houses out of our pockets like conjurors if we could. That’s what people seem to expect, always blaming us if they’re disappointed, when they ought to blame our superiors.’

Having braced myself to confront a sadistic tyrant, it was disconcerting, to say the least, to be faced with this ordinary, rather pleasant, harassed-seeming young man, who appeared anxious for my good opinion. But, remembering the old woman who’d been carried out, I said severely, ‘If you’re really doing your best, there’s no need to defend yourself.’ Rather alarmed by my boldness, I hesitated; then, as he said nothing, went on, ‘I can’t say anything, because all I know about the place is what I’ve been able to observe in the last half-hour — which certainly hasn’t impressed me very favourably.’

‘There! You see, it’s just as I said; we get the blame for everything. Of course, it’s very convenient for the people above us …’ Breaking off, he pulled some forms towards him and asked in a different tone, ‘And now, what can I do for you?’ But he seemed unable to forget his private joke, for, leaning forward so suddenly that the eye-shade slipped on one side, dangling drunkenly over his ear, he planted his elbows on the desk and stared at me with an inquisitive, keen, amused look. ‘You’re one person I did not expect to see here, I must say. You surely don’t want to move out of a flat anyone else would give his ears for?’

‘What? Do you know who I am, then?’ I exclaimed, taken aback.

‘Good Lord, yes. We know all your family history here. In fact, you’re quite a celebrity among us.’

Though he was clearly enjoying the surprise he had just sprung on me, his expression wasn’t unfriendly. In fact, his wide mouth stretched into a grin so disarming that it reassured me. Regaining confidence, I told myself that anyone might have used the words ‘family history’ and that they had no sinister personal meaning: my case was bound to be known to the whole Housing Bureau, being unique of its kind.

Looking at the red-haired man, I felt I’d reached the crucial point where I had to decide whether or not I was going to trust him — and really I saw no valid reason not to, dismissing a vague suspicion that he might have been told to extract information from me; for what information could he extract, beyond what was already known? I had no guilty secrets, I’d done nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, I was extremely proud of my fiancée, so why shouldn’t I tell him about her? He seemed genuinely well disposed towards me and might be willing to help us. So, having argued myself out of my initial slight distrust, I briefly explained the position, though without reference to Spector’s stipulation. Feeling my usual reluctance to speak about him, I merely stated that there were private reasons why I couldn’t live in the flat as a married man. Would he help me and give me the benefit of his advice?