“You!
“Number 6!
“Pay attention please.” The clearing of . . . a throat? a microphone? “I am addressingyou . Will you stop fussing over that pot and come into the living room?”
He placed the artichoke on the wire rack above the boiling water, placed the lid on the pot, set the timer at thirty-five minutes. Sliced the roll, set its halves beneath the broiler to toast. Folded his arms.
“I’m waiting. This obstinacy can only make matters more difficult for you, you know. For my own part, there are many other things I can do besides watching this cooking lesson. Are you listening to me, Number 6?
“Number 6?”
“My name is not Number 6. So, if it is me that you address, you would do well to use my name. If you don’t know it, which I doubt, you might introduce yourself. Then, perhaps, I’ll do as much for you.”
“Oh, fuss and bother.I am Number 2. For administrative purposes, numbers are much more convenient than names, and more reasonable as well. In this Village there might be any number of people with the same first name as you, or, in your case, even the same surname. But there can only beone Number 6, Number 6.”
“And only one Number 2?”
“Precisely. Numbers have the further advantage that they are meaningful. When I say that I am Number 2, that you are Number 6, that tells us something about our relationship.Will you stop buttering that roll and come into the living room?”
“I’d spoil my supper if I left off now. And in any case, I’d prefer to speak to Number 1. You may tell him that.”
“For you even to suggest that shows how little you understand your position–or mine. I have full authority to handle your case, rest assured. What are you making there?”
He took the roll, brown crust bubbling with butter, turned the oven to a low heat, placed it inside to dry. Poured the egg yolks into the top of the double broiler: they swirled into the melted butter.
“Eggs Beaugency. This is the sauce.”
“Well, leave it.”
“Leave a Béarnaise sauce? You must be insane.”
“You don’t seem to realize your position here, Number 6. If you did, you wouldn’t jeopardize those advantages you possess—such as my readiness to indulge you in this fantasy that you are free to oppose me.”
“It’s an uncomfortable position. And I intend to change it.”
“You are a prisoner, Number 6. It is as simple as that.”
“I doubt that even in this Village anything is as simple as that. I am not Number 6. I am not a prisoner. I am a free man.”
“Ah, philosophy! I cherish philosophy, but of course inyour situation it becomes downright necessary. There was a philosopher of ancient Rome, Horace (no doubt you’ve heard of him), who wrote: ‘Who, then is free? The wise man who can govern himself.’ Now that’s philosophy all over!”
“More to the point, he said:Hic murus aeneus esto, nilconscire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa .”
“Don’t your English public schools do wonderful things? There was never time, the way things went for me, to learn a classical language. I’ve always been kept going up and down, to and fro,doing things.”
“You’re American?”
“My accent? It’s mid-Atlantic, actually. And in other ways, Number 6, you’ll discover that I’m notquite what I seem.” A chuckle.
Then: “It must be a burden for you, Number 6, to stand there stirring that Béarnaise sauce, when there must be so many questions that you want to ask.”
“Not so difficult when my questions produce no answers.”
“Always these suspicions, Number 6! Always this hostility, these frowns, this lack of mutuality!
“If all who hate would love us,
And all our loves were true,
The stars that swing above us,
Would brighten in the blue;
If cruel words were kisses,
And every scowl a smile,
A better world than this is
Would hardly be worth while.’ ”
“Not Horace again, surely?”
“No, an American philosopher–James Newton Matthews. But you meant that as a joke, didn’t you? You’re feeling a little better. I’m glad to see it. A sense of humor is an absolute necessity in situations like these.”
“In prisons?”
“Oh, in general. Once you become accustomed to our life here, you’ll find it isn’tthat much different from the world outside. What you might call a microcosm, in fact. We have our local, democratically-elected government.”
“It’s powers must be rather limited.”
“Yes, somewhat. Were it any otherwise, how could I insist on our typicality? Further, our residents enjoy considerable affluence. Your kitchen, for instance–you find it well equipped?”
“It lacks a Mouli and a garlic press, and I don’t have much use for tinned spices, unless they’re all that’s to be had. And for what I’m doing now I should have beef marrow, but that can’t be helped.”
“I’ll make a note of that and speak to Number 84. Stocking your kitchen was her responsibility, and she’ll have cause to regret her carelessness. You see, Number 6, no one is idle here. There is always work to do, and there is always someone to do it.You will not be required to take a job, but should you find your leisure becoming a problem—”
“The very least of them.”
“A man of your vigor–and without any compulsion towork ?”
“I am retired, you know.”
“So I’ve been given to understand. And so young too! Thirty-eight?”
“Forty.”
“You were born?”
“Yes. On 19 March 1928. Don’t you have that in your dossier?”
“You can’t expect me to keep track of all of that. You should see your dossier, Number 6–it’s very nearly the largest in our files.”
“When the eggs are done, I’ll take you up on that.”
“That sauce isn’t readyyet ? It’s rather impersonal to be discussing these matters at such a distance. I distrust a man who won’t look me in the eyes.”
“Always these suspicions, Number 2! If all who love would hate us, and all our hates were true—”
“You have a point. But as I was saying, about the organization of the Village (forgive me dwelling on a theme so dear to my heart): we also possess excellent recreational facilities. There are clubs that cater to every possible interest: photography, the theater, botany, folk singing. There are discussion groups on comparative religion, on political philosophy (I attend some of those myself), on almost anything that an educated man might want to talk about. We have some lively bridge tournaments, and if you play chess, we can boast three acknowledged masters of the game.”
“Have you played against them?”
“Yes, and I’ve even known to win. Then, what else? Sports? Dear me, all the sportsmen here! We have no less than four elevens. There are soccer teams for both men and women. Tennis is very popular, and squash. Our older citizens amuse themselves at croquet, and the spryer among them badminton. What are your preferences, Number 6?”
“I’ve always preferred individual sport. But once again, that should be in my dossier.”
“Yes, it said that you do quite a bit of boating. Sad to say, no one shows much interest in that here.”
“And marksmanship?”
“Oh, Number 6!”
“Boxing, then? I sometimes like to box.”
“For shame, Number 6–thatyou should be the one to bring it up! Poor Number 83 is in hospital with concussions. You really didn’t have to go that far.”
“And the other one?”
“Number 189 is back at his job, sweeping, sweeping. He’s quite resilient, that one. But even so, you must recognize how futile these violent outbursts are. Do you think that we’d be so naive as to base our security on a few pairs of fists? Our residents are always under surveillance, and those who are as important to us as you receive individual attention. Whenever you leave your house I’m kept informed of your whereabouts. Should you decide to take a walk into the country–and at this time of year, who can resist to?–you will be brought back to the Village, as you were today, whenever you overstep the boundaries.”
“By your big white balls?”
“By a Guardian, yes. Though not all are white. Some are pink. Some are baby blue. A few are mint-green, and there is one–I pray to God that you should never encounterit –in fawn.”
“And the boundaries, how are they marked?”
“We don’t like to deface the natural beauty of the surrounding countryside with unsightly signs and ugly wire fences. If you’re curious, you’ll discover them soon enough. After all, wasn’t it Wordsworth who said—”
‘Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage.’ No, it was Richard Lovelace. In a poem he wrote to his mistress from prison.”
“It wasn’t Wordsworth? I’m sure he said something, then, to the same effect. Perhaps I’m thinking of:
‘This royal throne of kings, this sceptre’d isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-prisonhouse . . .’ ”
“Whoever wrote them, they’re beautiful lines.”
“Stirring, stirring! Well, God bless Richard Lovelace! And how is the sauce Béarnaise coming?”
“You haven’t been watching: it’s done, and soon the artichoke will be.”
“Can’t one trust an artichoke to cook itself? Come into the living room a moment and talk seriously, do.”
“Very well, but I must have answers then.”
“You need only ask the proper questions, Number 6.”
He went into the living room.
The camera zoomed in slowly on the face until it occupied the greater part of the window frame; until, from the knobby blue chin to the faint citras-yellow curve (a strand of hair?) bounding the bald blue head, it measured fully four feet. It would have seemed, in other colors than these, a very friendly face. The general spareness of its features–the thin lips, the Draconian nose, the deep-set eyes (were they actually purple?)–could be accounted to age rather than to any sort of meanness. His smile seemed unforced and sincere, and his eyes, despite their dubious color, shared in this good humor.
Fifty years old? Sixty? More?
In short, a nice old man; a bit of a Polonius perhaps, but then Polonius had been a nice old man too.
The four-foot head nodded.
“Now, isn’t this much more intimate?”
The voice, imperfectly synchronized with the movement of the lips, lagged a split-second behind the image.
“Why don’t you take a chair, Number 6? And we can have ourselves a heart-to-heart talk. Face-to-face. Man-to-man.”
“First, my question. It’s very simple: what do you want?”
The head showed its profile, as though to make certain that the object inquired after were still there. And turned back, smiling:
“Why, the world, of course. Who is really ever satisfied with less?”
“What do you wantfrom me ?”
“Information. Only that. Your friendship, though of inestimable worth, would be almost an embarrassment of riches.”
“Go on.”
“The information in your head is priceless, Number 6. I don’t think you have a proper reckoning of its value.”
“Didn’t you—”
“Didn’t I what?”
He would have to ask this; it was only a matter of time. He took the plunge: “Have I been here before? In this room? In this Village? When you said that just now, it seemed . . .”
“Ah-ha! Nowthat is a most pertinent question. Yes, Number 6, you have been here before. You remember nothing of it?”
“I—”
“Such a look, Number 6! Such a look! I’ve done nothing to deserve that. In fact, I’ve helped you. I answered your question candidly and truthfully. And I’ll go on helping you, if you’ll just tell me what other things you want to know.”
“How long was I away?”
“Not very long. A month, a year–time is so subjective. May I say, parenthetically, that you seem suddenly much less sure of yourself?”
“I was in London.”
“Were you?”
“I remember being there. I remember . . . some things. Other things are vague. And there are areas that are . . . blank.”
“Very nicely put, Number 6. That, in a nutshell, is the process of memory. Since I can’t very well ask you which things you’ve forgotten, may I inquire what you do remember?”
“Almost everything that doesn’t interesteither of us very much.”
“And that whichwould interest us?”
“Is blank.”
“How convenient for you!”
“Am I supposed to believe that this comes to you as a surprise?”
“We suspected that something of the sort had happened. Your behavior today has tended to confirm that.”
“Andyou have had no hand in it?”
“In your brainwashing? As a matter of fact, Number 6, no; we haven’t. We’re not even certain who did. Naturally, your former employers are prime suspects. But on the other hand, all kinds of peoplemight have. The information you possess is, as I’ve said, priceless–and not only to those who, like ourselves, lack it, but equally for those with whom you share it. When you disappeared for your little holiday here, they must have grown quite worried, and when you returned . . . Well, put yourself in their place. You seem disgruntled.”
“It strikes me that you’re being extremely communicative. Which means either that you’re lying, or that you have your own nasty reasons for telling the truth.”
“The truth in this case is simply so much more interesting than any lie I might invent. Ihad considered suggesting, as an experiment, that you hadn’t actually left the Village at all, that your little interlude in London was a hallucination induced in our laboratory. In theory that could have been done. With a competent surgeon and a few drugs, all things are possible. Life, as (I think it was) aSpanish philosopher said, is but a dream. Or else he said it’s very short, I don’t recall. One can make a case for either theory. But why should I want to confuse you more than you must be already? After all,this time, Number 6, we have a common cause. We both want to know what it is you’ve been made to forget–that is, if youhave forgotten it and aren’t just malingering cleverly.”
“And ifyou don’t already know.”
“Well, if we did, then you need have no scruples about confiding in us and letting us help you remember the matter yourself. That would be a very altruistic undertaking.”
“Yes. I had already discounted the possibility.”
“Splendid. We understand each other now. And we can begin, just as soon as you like, to recover some of that lost time.”
“What makes you believe it’s still there to be recovered?”
“The fact that you’re alive at all. Presumably, you’re still considered useful. The surest way to have guaranteed your silence would have been to silence you. And the next surest way, though it would have left you alive, would have–how shall I say?–reducedyou. The reason thatwe never tampered anymore than we did (though we hadmany opportunities) is because, valuable though your information might prove, you, Number 6, are infinitely more valuable. What price can be set on the autonomy of the individual? Isn’t that a fine phrase, by the way–‘the autonomy of the individual’? No, that information will still be there: it’s just been swept under a rug, so to speak. We need only poke about here and there, peeking under the corners, to find it.”
“And who is scheduled to perform this poking and peeking?”
“As Socrates once said, ‘Know Thyself.’ Or was that Hamlet?”
“You’re thinking of ‘To thine own self be true.’ ”
“Ah! ‘And it must follow as the night the day, thou canstthen be false to any man.’ How Shakespeare understands the human heart! But to get back: no one but yourself can undertake to dive down into the deeper waters of your head. But we can offer you assistance, someone to handle the pump, as it were. Our Number 14 has helped other people who found themselves in your unfortunate situation.”
“By what means?”
“By sympathy! At root it’s theonly means by which one human being can help another. Sympathy in conjunction with some form or other of animal magnetism.”
“You’ll find that I’m a poor hypnotic subject. I resist.”
“Not always, apparently, or you wouldn’t be in this bind now. I realized when I brought the matter up that you wouldn’t rush into our arms. It’s enough for now that you should know they’re open.”
A bell rang in the kitchen.
A blue finger reached up to pull at a blue ear lobe; the blue smile became a frown of deeper blue. “Now who in hell could that be? Theyknow that I’m—”
“It’s an artichoke,” he said. “You’ll have to excuse me. I must poach some eggs.”
“By all means. Wasn’t it Bismarck who said—”
“ ‘You can’t make an omelette without poaching eggs.’ No, it was Jean Valjean.”
“Number 6, you’ll kill me.”
“Not unless you grant me an interview in person, Number 2. Thoughts can’t kill.”
“And words can never hurt me. Robert Lowell?”
“Jean-Paul Sartre.”
He lifted the artichoke gingerly off the rack, poured the sauce in a small pitcher which he placed above the still-steaming water. Selected two eggs, broke them, let them ease into melted butter.
“You do that nicely,” the voice said from the living room. Dissociated from the face, it seemed suddenly younger, and at the same time less benevolent. “If you’re serious about establishing a more personal relationship, perhaps I can invite myself to dinner. This Friday, say?”
“Sorry. My engagement calendar is filled for months ahead. I lead a full life.”
“It does say in your dossier that you’re hard to get to know. But I’ve always held that it’s just such people who end up being most worth knowing.”
“That’s too bad. I feel I knowyou very well already.”
“You’re depressed, that’s why you’re like this. It’s still your first day back at home, and it’s been a busy, busy day. And then, finding out on top of everything else that someone’s been diddling with your head, that’s the kicker, that’s the unkindest cut of all. You must try to remember the positive aspects of your situation, however.”
“I’ll bet a philosopher said that.”
“Yes, Susan Coolidge. But you didn’t give me a chance to say what it was she said. She might have written it just for you.”
“Comfort me, then.”
“It’s called ‘Begin Again’ and it goes like this:
‘Every day is a fresh beginning.
Every morn is the world made new;
You are weary of sorrow and sinning,
Here is a beautiful hope for you–
A hope for me and a hope for you.’ ”
“Yes, well? The comfort?”
“That’s it–that’s the wonderful thing about your being back here: that everything that didn’t quite work out the first time can be done over again. The way it should have been donethen .”
“Thanks for a glowing opportunity.”
“Your eggs are ready.”
“In forty seconds.”
“I’ll go now.”
“Don’t feel that you have to.”
“Tomorrow is another day, Number 6.”
“And tomorrow.”
“And tomorrow. Toodle-oo.”
In the living room the blue face winked and vanished; the speaker barked.