Louse (3 page)

The regulation of half steps and shortcuts applies to all procedures for which all staff members are responsible. It is known as the
“Liability Doctrine.” In short, if any half step or shortcut is taken through any procedure, we are liable for our lack of thoroughness and/or attention to detail, even when such thoroughness and/or attention to detail is dependent on another staff member. This dependency on other staff members makes for
interdependence.

Every week since I have been Poppy's ward, I have been suffering from a lack of interdependence. I have been demoted once a week for as long as I can remember because Poppy's exterminator has never appeared in Poppy's chambers to perform his duties. And since the exterminator and I are considered a full step—I, half the step, he, the other half—my efforts cannot be completed in full. According to my contract, I am to escort the exterminator through the corridors, into the bathrooms, and through Poppy's living quarters. Every third Thursday of the month, at exactly 9:00
P.M.
, I am to wait in one of the three corridors leading to Poppy's chambers. I am to wait until either Poppy calls for me, or until I am supposed to be somewhere else. Not once has the exterminator shown up, and not once have I heard of an investigation into the exterminator.

I do not understand why there hasn't been any investigation; especially since Poppy has seen, on more than several occasions, a small beetle crawling in and out of the various ravines of his chambers' landscape. When I tell Poppy that the exterminator has been neglecting his duties, he tells me about the Communist diaspora and the nature of the Mongol hordes of the thirteenth century. He often talks at length about the ruthless attacks Genghis Khan led on a fortress in Bukhara in the region of Central Asia. He will condemn the Mongols in both the Chinese and Russian governments, blame them for these regimes' obstinacy throughout the centuries.
When he is through with his discourse, I ask him what should be done. He says he doesn't want me to do anything. In fact, he warns me that I am not to speak about such things until he, himself, sees the insect with his own eyes. And when this occurs, I am not supposed to contact the exterminator, but rather am expected to chase after the bug, capture it, and send it down the incinerator. But every time he has seen this beetle, I haven't. I tell him so. Regardless, I am sent off to attack this invisible creature, dig for it with my fingers, through the refuse of headlines and history, tear away words upon his commands. I destroy the mountain range as I know it, rearrange it so that it looks like a wrecking crew has stripped the land of all its precious qualities. He points me in this direction and that direction until he tires from the chase and I'm left panting and sweating and have newsprint and paper cuts covering my hands.

I discovered early on that Poppy is deathly afraid to be in the same room with another's blood, which I find confusing, because he is so exacting when describing the details of medieval weaponry and how, with the proper amount of brute force, a thick and heavy sword cuts through skin and crushes bone, whereupon a man is a pulsing corpse. On the several occasions I have bled in his presence, he has informed Celia Lonesome, Head of Domestic Staff, to send a cleaning crew to disinfect his chambers. During this time he remains in bed as the workmen clean around him, spraying heavy doses of ammonia onto the newspapers and into the air. Dressed in smocks, masks, and rubber gloves, the crew disinfects and scours until they have depleted most of the chambers' oxygen. The old man takes deep breaths, which calms him of his terror. And, mind you, his terror is quite real. I have learned that he has many fears like this, and if one wished to torment him it would be
a very simple chore. If there was a man of action and malicious deeds who didn't care about his fate, he could threaten Poppy's sanity with a simple pitcher of rain water. I have learned that it isn't so much the blood, although it is the blood, but more that blood is liquid. He fears most forms of liquids—to see them, drink them, touch them, be in their presence. He is convinced that liquids in general, especially water, and even water purified by the staff, is contaminated. He has a similar aversion to fresh fruits, meats, and vegetables. He says, “the grit of the earth, the dew of the morning, the fertilizers, are full of infectious bacteria, bacteria imperceptible to the eye, deadly and unspeakably unfriendly.”

Poppy's personal clerical staff sit in fish bowl cubicles under white fluorescent rods. A labyrinth of small offices and passages recesses into the northern-most quadrant of the building. Fingers type furiously. Telephone receivers simultaneously lift and fall.

I enter a door that leads to an interoffice elevator and swipe my identification card through an electronic eye, then punch in my code. The elevator's reflective silver doors open into a reflective silver interior. I press B1. The doors close. The elevator drops, and I can feel the rapid descent in the core of my stomach. I ride down thirty-three floors and exit through Accounting, which, like the offices in the penthouse, recesses deep into the back of the building, only deeper. Large stacks of bundled greenbacks meticulously line the desks of the swing shift money managers, the ones who work through all hours of the night to take advantage of the international markets. I pass through a glass-encased corridor and watch the faces of the men and women as their lips incessantly mutter indistinguishable syllables. They thrust them into the air in a very
strategic and deadly serious manner characterized by pursed lips and indented brows.

A small group of men and women dressed in our standard uniform of gray suits, gray vests, blue ties, black belts, black shoes, huddle together in the passageway. They are huddled so tightly I can't make out a single face. Their voices remain compressed within their circle.

“Have you been implicated?”

“I couldn't say. What about you?”

“I'm not sure. But I wouldn't rule it out.”

“We can never rule it out.”

“Guilty by design.”

“Yes, guilty by design.”

“It's just hard to say what may come of it.”

“Especially when they're still making assessments.”

“The future is in the hands of the present.”

“So they say.”

“It will come out soon enough.”

“Of course.”

“Of course.”

“He will…”

“They say…”

“…forget…”

“…go.”

“…us…”

And the voices drift as I reach the end of the hall.

The hallway ends.

I open a door that leads to a narrow glass-paned hall identical to the one I just left. Lights illuminate the money counters sorting
through crane-loads of coins laid out in mounds on glass tables. I take a corridor to the right, then the left, through a double security door guarded by an individual behind dark tinted glass, and then down another flight of stairs, which deposits me into a large subterranean warehouse where the noise of forklifts and other heavy machinery begins to make itself known to my ears. Beside the door is a row of chairs. A line of teenagers looking approximately the same age sit in demure silence. The one closest to the door stands to attention.

“Yes, sir!” he says to me with a stiff upper lip. He recognizes that I am a domestic from my shaved head and arms. His hand starts to shake a little—he knows who I work for.

“Please retrieve the following,” I say to the boy as I hand him a prewritten list of items I need.

“Yes, sir!” he says. His youthful legs sprint down the long corridor into the supply room.

As I wait for him to return, one boy begins whispering into another boy's ear, and the next thing I know they are all whispering to each other.

“They revealed some names.”

“The ones under Blank?”

“Yes. Berger, Lumpit, Nester, and Blurd.”

“Blurd?”

“Yes, Blurd.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.”

“But there are more to come.”

“Anything concrete?”

“Their books were confiscated.”

“Yes, that I heard.”

“They're being reviewed.”

“They say many others.”

“Many names.”

“Yes, they'll follow.”

“Found in a vault, they say.”

“In a trunk.”

“In a vault.”

“They will no doubt find others.”

“There is no telling how far up it will go.”

“I have heard a woman in Internal Affairs.”

“Let go to Sales.”

“They have the most evidence on her.”

“Nothing shredded.”

“Nothing hidden.”

“It was all there in plain light.”

“They say she confessed.”

“I wonder how long it will be before the viewing?”

“It shouldn't be long.”

“It could be any time now.”

“Is there any other news?”

“Only that it's big.”

“Bigger than ever before.”

“Our lives are to be affected.”

“Changed.”

“Never to be the same again.”

“Our path to Paradise might be…”

“To be kept from Paradise…”

“It just might be.”

“A great disappointment.”

“So it seems.”

“Yes.”

“Yes yes.”

When the boy returns with my order everyone becomes silent.

I look at them.

They look at me.

“Very well done,” I say to the boy.

He hands back my list, on which is stamped “Received.” He hands over six black and six blue pens (all of which are individually shrink-wrapped and inspected for noticeable perforations), four yellow legal pads (also individually shrink-wrapped), and a
Wall Street Journal
wrapped in a plastic bag with a red twisty tie at the top (each page has been lightly misted with disinfectant). I ask the boy's name because I am impressed with his diligence.

“Venison, sir!”

“Good work, Venison.”

I briskly walk away from the boys to show them my diligence is not unlike theirs, that I too have an authority to whom I must bow. I can hear their whispers turn into plain speech as I depart. It follows me through the narrow passageway until I am several hundred feet beyond them.

When I reach Bathroom Number Three, I first place the newly gathered objects on a tray whose specific purpose is for the bathroom's preparation. I remove a pair of sterilized rubber gloves from a supply closet resembling the medical supply pantry in the kitchen and put them on. I remove the
Wall Street Journal
from its package and unfold it. I go to the center page and lay the fold over
the newspaper rack built into the wall for such a purpose. I leave each pen and pad in its shrink-wrap and place these items on a shelf below the rack. From Bathroom Number Three's supply closet, I remove a sterilized phone from its shelf along with a cord, which like everything else is wrapped in plastic. I place these things on top of a recently overhauled Zenith and roll everything in front of the toilet. I remove the cord from the bag, plug it into the phone and click the attachment into the wall. I place the phone with the cord neatly coiled next to the toilet on a little foot-stool. I run into the bathroom supply closet and open a new box of Kleenex, which I place next to the phone. I reach into my pocket and remove my tape measure. I measure three feet from the head of the toilet outward to the center of the room. I roll the television over the marble floor to the spot I have visually marked, and plug the power cord into an outlet near Jane's facade above the sink. I run to the toilet with the remote control in hand and place it on the left-hand armrest. I crouch down and lift the receiver of the phone. I dial Godwin Beeles at the television station.

“Beeles here.”

“12
A.M.
,” I say and hang up. He knows the procedure.

I collect all of the debris and send it down the incineration chute in the supply closet and walk to the kitchen where I am to observe the Head of Domestic Staff, Celia Lonesome, prepare Poppy's meal.

When I reach the kitchen, a plastic package of rice bobs up and down in a pot of boiling water. Poppy's silver dinner tray rests beside the stove. It contains a brilliantly shining can, a medium-sized pot, a Pyrex bowl, a package of silverware, freshly bleached
cotton napkins, and a can opener. Ms. Lonesome exits Food Pantry Number Four carrying a can of peaches. She greets me with the smile with which we are to greet one another.

“Good evening, Mr. Louse.”

“Good evening, Ms. Lonesome.”

I look into her light blue eyes, which are translucent and void of any visible curiosity. The bright fluorescent light of the kitchen reflects off her smooth white skin. Her face is round and shows no revealing signs of age or expression. Unlike Mr. Heinrik and Mr. Lutherford, Ms. Lonesome has no distinct intonations or patterns of speech. She stresses her vowels as if they're not there. Her consonants click against her palate and her lips without enthusiasm, as if she isn't talking at all. Each utterance triggers no recollection of any time or place in my forgotten past. In fact, her mouth hardly moves when she talks. I sometimes feel as if she is throwing her voice straight to my brain, and we are talking telepathically.

“Have you heard the news, Mr. Louse?”

“No, Ms. Lonesome. Not in full.”

Ms. Lonesome gently and slowly rocks the can of peaches between her palms, against the front of her blouse.

“Intelligence has discovered the source of the missing funds,” she says softly. “The money has been attached to Mr. Blank. Mortimer Blank. Who they believe laundered the money with the assistance of a small group of accountants and Intelligence officers. Pan Opticon reports that Paradise may be threatened. It is very worrisome, Mr. Louse.”

“Yes, I agree, Ms. Lonesome. Very worrisome.”

Ms. Lonesome looks at me blankly.

I look at Ms. Lonesome with what feels like longing.