The Curfew - Jesse Ball [21]
—But how do you know who the police are?
William thought of his conversations with Oscar. It was virtually impossible to tell.
—You err on the side of false positives. Everyone shifts their behavior to simple routines, and the secret police are forced to become visible, simply to do their work. Then they become available as targets.
The ringing of a bell could be heard in the distance. The room had become very quiet. Gerard was looking at William and William, he was looking at Gerard. Louisa was not there, for she was dead, but in that way she was in fact there.
—Shall I say it? said Gerard.
William nodded.
—Someone I know, who was, well, he was working for the government then, before he came over. He saw what happened to her. I can’t relate it. I don’t want to. But I have everything about the file here.
He produced a folder from behind one of the boxes and handed it to William. It was tied around with string and was quite thick.
—I imagine you’ll want to look at that at home, or somewhere without company.
The door opened again.
—Gerard, will you come?
—All right, here I am. Hold on a moment.
He stood up.
—Well, that’s it, William. I wanted to show you something else, too, but I guess it can wait.
—What is it?
The girl pulled on Gerard’s arm.
—Hold on, he said.
He knelt down and opened a cabinet that was on floor level. Out of it, he removed a flat black leather case. He set it down.
William could feel his pulse in his hands.
Gerard unfastened two buckles and opened the case.
It was a violin.
—Where did you get it?
—Can’t say.
William looked at the girl.
—Don’t worry about me, she said. I’m the one who got it.
—It’s for you, William, said Gerard. You should probably go home now. Having you here, it’s out of the routine, and a danger for both of us. You have a safe route home? You planned it, no?
—I …
William looked away.
—Perhaps it’s best you stay, then. If you don’t have transportation, or a clear route. I thought you had, well, don’t worry about it. Just stay. If you don’t want to be among people, you can read upstairs in the bedroom, and leave first thing.
—I have to be home. My daughter, you see.
—I see.
William paused a moment on the stair.
In one hand he had the violin case, in the other the scrip of files.
Laughter came from within. William shook his head. The lights along the streets blinked on then off.
Gerard shut the door and watched the figure go away along the street, the black case apparent under his arm.
—Do you think he’ll …?
—He won’t play it, not ever. But at least he will have it.
—And for the rest?
—If he acts, if he doesn’t, it’s meaningless. The whole thing goes forward. No one is important. No one at all.
—A war with no participants. Only casualties. The forest opens and consumes the troops.
She laughed.
—And consumes the troops, agreed Gerard.
She came to the door and stood beside him looking out the window.
There was nothing to see.
—I have a terrible feeling, he said. Like the rope isn’t tied to anything.
—Come now, he’ll make it home. Come.
She kissed him and led him back to the others.
—And here, said Mr. Gibbons, is the brush I always use for eyes.
He handed Molly an extremely thin brush.
—It is not a-single-horse’s-hair, but it is close to that.
Molly wrote on the paper:
*Three horse hairs?
—Perhaps.
The brush had a furious red handle. Such a handle, it seemed that it would grant life to whatever it made. Molly gave it back to Mr. Gibbons reluctantly.
*But why a different brush for eyes? Is there one for mouths, for ears, for cheeks? Molly wrote.
Mr. Gibbons read the paper.
—You’re a shrewd one, he said. That’s for certain. Here’s why: if I have to switch brushes for each feature, it grants me the space of thought. I can’t just dash ’em off. Also, the brush can be acquainted with its specialty, if you believe such things.
He coughed.
—Not that believing such things has anything to do with whether they are true. You see that, don’t you?
Molly nodded.
—The effect of irrational beliefs on your art is invaluable. You must