The Punctual Rape, page 3
‘Of course,’ Berg said.
Lazlow paced up and down the office, seemingly deep in thought. His bald head shone in the very feeble light that fell between the bars and the legs of his steel spectacles glinted. After a time he stopped by the filing cabinet and removed a file, almost at random.
‘All the information you require is contained in these files,’ he said. ‘They contain the names of the companies who supply us with materials, and the dates of our original orders. Sometimes you’ll find that a certain supplier has failed to deliver on time, in which case you send them one of our printed reminders. Miss Selz will tell you where to find them. You also make a carbon copy of the reminder, which Miss Selz brings to my attention.’
Lazlow passed the file to Berg who opened it and looked inside. It contained hundreds of sheets of paper, both invoices and order.
‘That particular file is for a company who supply us with metal tubes. They always deliver on time so you won’t have any difficulty with them.’
Berg flicked through the sheets of paper, nodding his head diligently. Lazlow began to walk up and down the room again.
‘As I said, if you have a quick eye and a sharp brain you can’t go wrong.’
‘I think you’ll find that I have those qualities,’ Berg said, and hoped that his remark would not be interpreted as a boast.
‘I think so too,’ Lazlow said and walked to the door. ‘I’m always available if you have any questions.’
When he was alone, Berg sat down and placed his hands firmly on the surface of his desk. Naturally it was disappointing to share a room with Lazlow’s typist, but if he did well at the work—which seemed, on the face of it, to be extremely simple—then no doubt he would be given an office of his own eventually. At least he had his own telephone, something Miss Selz did not have on her desk: there, at least, his superiority over her was quite clear.
The view from the window was something else that did not exactly please him. There was a grey stone wall, along which ran a metal water pipe. Above the wall it was just possible to see a fragment of sky, but he had to twist his neck to look at it. Anyway, he would not have time to stare out of the window: this was quite clearly a busy office, and he would not have an idle moment.
Experimentally, he reached out and picked up his telephone. Almost at once he heard a voice on the other end of the line.
‘Site Agent speaking.’
Surprised at being connected without even having dialled a number, Berg did not know what to say. Besides, he was nervous at hearing the voice of someone so obviously important as the Site Agent.
‘Site Agent—is that you, Lazlow?’
‘No. This is Berg.’
‘Who? Berg? Never heard of you.’
‘I’m the new man,’ Berg said.
‘What new man?’
Berg stared at the window, frantically trying to think of something to say.
‘What do you want?’ the Agent asked. ‘I haven’t got time to waste, I never have time for anything.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Berg said. ‘I didn’t mean to ring you——’
He tried to explain what had happened but the Agent had already rung off. Berg put the telephone down and stared at it. He realised then that the telephone did not connect him to the outside world—in the sense that he could dial any number he chose—but that whenever he lifted it he was automatically connected to the Site Agent, who quite clearly did not like being summoned pointlessly. Berg wrung his hands together: an error so soon. He got up from the desk and walked to the filing cabinet, a matter of some five paces. He opened the top drawer and flicked through the files and as he was doing this a girl of about twenty came in. Breathlessly she removed her scarf and threw it down over her typewriter.
‘You must be Berg. Welcome Berg, to the pit.’
‘The pit?’ Berg asked. He looked at the girl, a little annoyed that she had called him by his second name without the courtesy of ‘Mr’.
‘That damned train,’ she said. ‘It arrives at a different time every morning. Sometimes early, sometimes late. Never on time. You don’t know where you stand with it.’
She took off her coat as she talked, hung it at a peg on the wall near her desk, and then sat down.
‘You’re Miss Selz, I take it,’ Berg said.
‘You don’t have to be formal,’ Miss Selz said. ‘You can call me by my first name. Irma. After all, we’re going to be working in this rat-hole together, so there’s no need for stiffness and politeness, is there?’
Berg watched her light a cigarette. He did not know what to say at first. He sat down at his desk. Her yellow hair was black at the roots and she wore a great deal of lipstick, applied thickly and with little expertise.
‘I hope we get on together,’ she said.
‘So do I,’ Berg answered.
‘You’ll find me easy-going, though I might as well warn you now that although I don’t mind the odd joke or two, I don’t stand for any nonsense.’
Nonsense? Berg wondered. Miss Selz began to hammer something out on her typewriter and didn’t speak to him again for some time. He flicked through some more files, taking notes, and wondered when his work was going to begin in earnest. It was quite likely that Lazlow would allow him two or three days to understand how things functioned and to get to know the nature of the work at the Site. If so, then he would simply read carefully through the files for a start, to acquaint himself with the names of the suppliers and their materials.
Miss Selz stopped typing and lit another cigarette.
‘You don’t object if I smoke, do you, Berg? I have to smoke to keep sane. It isn’t much fun sitting here day after day typing boring letters and memos, is it?’
‘If you’re bored, why do you stay?’ Berg asked, surprised a little at hearing her speak so openly of her discontent.
‘Why not? One job’s much the same as any other.’
‘Couldn’t you find something a little less tedious?’
Miss Selz smiled. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’
Berg thought for a moment. She was a young girl, certainly, which perhaps explained the tedium she found in her work and the frankness with which she announced it. After all, she was not to know that he might consider it a duty to pass this information on to Lazlow.
‘What about you?’ Miss Selz asked. ‘Surely this sort of post isn’t going to make you wild with excitement, is it? After a week or two you’ll be bored to death with those files and invoices.’
‘I hope not,’ Berg said. ‘I hope I find it interesting.’ As he looked at her, it occurred to him that perhaps she was testing him, for all that he knew, Lazlow might have briefed her to find out something about his attitudes, in the hope that it might be discovered whether he was a worthy employee and a candidate for future promotion. It wasn’t beyond possibility: all sorts of methods were used in offices to ascertain the calibre of people. He said simply, ‘I want to do my work well. I want to make a good job of things here.’
Miss Selz smiled and returned to her typewriter, while Berg continued reading the files. At ten o’clock she stopped, opened her bag, and took out some bread and cheese.
‘Would you like something to eat?’
Berg, who had last eaten at a quarter past seven when Mrs Jacobitz, in her nightgown, had served him coffee and bread fried in lard, received the offer gratefully. He took a piece of bread and slice of cheese.
‘Have you been here long?’ he asked.
‘About a year.’
‘Do you get on well with Mr Lazlow?’
‘Like a house on fire,’ the typist replied, in such a way that Berg could not tell if she were being sarcastic. She asked; ‘You came here from the capital, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’
‘I’ve always wanted to go there. What’s it like?’
‘Like any other city.’
‘I’ve never been in any city. I wish I had done some travelling. They say it broadens your outlook.’
‘It’s expensive to live in the capital,’ Berg said.
‘Is that why you left?’
‘It was one of the reasons.’
Miss Selz yawned and stretched her arms. She had small pointed breasts that were accentuated by the stretching movement. She wrapped away what was left of the bread and cheese and then started to type again. Berg resumed his reading of the files, memorising as much as he could. It was a monotonous task. At half past twelve Miss Selz turned to him.
‘Did you bring any lunch with you?’
‘I thought I might go to the café along the street.’
‘It isn’t exactly pleasant in there. I bring my lunch with me.’
Berg started to replace the files. Then, suddenly curious, he asked, ‘Can you tell me about the Site?’
Miss Selz did not reply at once. From her bag she took several apples and a glass jar that contained sour cream. These she placed on her desk and began to polish the apples with a tissue.
‘Hasn’t Lazlow told you anything about the Site?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything. It’s up to him to give you that sort of information.’
‘Why? Is it a matter of security?’
Miss Selz bit one of her apples. ‘Sorry, Berg. I can’t answer any questions like that.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ Berg asked. He leaned against the filing cabinet, surprised that she refused to answer what was, after all, a simple question. But if security were involved, why didn’t she say so? In that case, he would ask no more questions. He was also surprised that he had not been told anything by Lazlow, although this was perhaps understandable if the Site involved security: he was a new man and could not be entrusted with classified information.
Miss Selz spat a ribbon of indigestible peel into the palm of her hand and smothered it with a piece of tissue paper.
‘Don’t you think—since I work here—that I ought to know just what’s going on?’ Berg asked.
‘You’ll find out all you want in time,’ the typist said, staring at a newspaper she had opened. ‘But not from me. Ask Lazlow.’
Berg got to his feet and went outside. It was a warm sunless day and the town seemed absolutely still. He walked along the street to the café, went inside, and waited for someone to take his order. There were no other customers apart from himself. While he waited he noticed that his hands were slightly trembling and within himself he felt a rising sense of excitement. One thing was clear to him: whatever went on at the Site was shrouded in secrecy. That was quite beyond doubt. Otherwise, either Lazlow or the girl—who was talkative by nature—would have told him. And this thought excited him for he had never dreamed that he would be connected in any way with matters of security—and even if his position was a lowly one at least it was far more important than he had realised. It gave an added dimension to the mundane tasks he had to undertake in the office and it meant that he could tell no one—neither Mrs Jacobitz nor her niece—about the nature of his work. He could call himself a clerk and leave it at that, and if they asked he would elude their questions.
‘Are you going to order?’
Berg looked up to see a man in a greasy apron standing beside the table.
‘What have you got?’ Berg asked.
‘Pork, stuffed peppers, sausages, pressed boar’s head—take your pick.’
‘The pork, I think.’
The man went through a door and into another room, leaving Berg alone again. For one mad moment he experienced the strong urge to write to his mother, telling her about the kind of work he was doing—but it was a pointless urge that would only bring him trouble. If she were to discover where he lived she would flood him with tearful letters, bogus medical certificates (she paid a private physician to put his signature to any outrageous malady), telegrams proclaiming her various illnesses, and possibly even an invitation to her funeral—and he could not stand such a circus of miseries again. No, he could not write to his mother: it was a stupid idea.
The waiter returned with a plate of pork and boiled potatoes.
‘You’ll find the pork tough,’ he said casually. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying, I suspect the pig was diseased.’
Berg watched the man retreat to the inner room before he picked up his knife and fork and started to eat. When he had finished he put some money on the table and went out. The meal had been tasteless, although it had satisfied his appetite.
Miss Selz was chewing her last apple when he returned.
‘By the way, Berg, Mr Lazlow wants to see you at four o’clock.
Seven
Promptly at four Berg entered Lazlow’s office. Lazlow, hands behind his back, was standing at the window, staring into the street. He turned round and told Berg to sit.
‘Now that your first day is almost over, how do you find things?’
Berg did not quite understand the question, partly because of the ambiguity of the word ‘things’. He coughed and cleared his throat and could only say in the end, ‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Good,’ Lazlow said, and went to his desk where he placed the palms of his hands firmly against the wooden surface. Berg noticed that there wasn’t a single scrap of paper anywhere on the desk. ‘First days, of course, are always difficult. It’s a case of getting used to the various ways we have of doing things. Our bureaucratic system, you might say.’
It was on the tip of Berg’s tongue to ask about the Site: but how could he, without being presumptuous, without putting Lazlow into the false position of having to answer the question or ignore it entirely?
‘And do you find Irma Selz helpful?’
‘Up to a point,’ Berg said.
‘That’s exactly how it should be. Do you know that she’s the fastest typist in the district? I’m telling you this because you might wonder why I tolerate her continual lateness of arrival. Why don’t I employ a girl from the town? The fact is, I’ve never seen a better typist.’
‘I had noticed her speed,’ Berg said.
Lazlow clasped his hands together and then, slowly, removed his spectacles. He breathed on the lenses, rubbed them with a handkerchief, and then returned them to his face.
‘Now I’m afraid I have to reprimand you. I know that allowances have to be made since this is your first day here, but I am informed that you telephoned the Site Agent at ten minutes past eight this morning. And that you did so without reason. Is that true?’
‘It was an accident,’ Berg said.
‘An accident? I don’t think I understand that. Would you explain?’ Lazlow took a cigarette from his jacket and put it down on the centre of his desk as if to tempt himself.
‘You see, I picked up the telephone quite without thinking. To my surprise, I found myself connected to the Site Agent. I didn’t expect to be connected to anyone, because I hadn’t dialled a number.’ Berg licked his dry lips and felt awkward and nervous: how do you explain a foolish action?
‘But why did you pick up the telephone in the first place? Did you simply want to test the equipment? Or did you have other motives?’
‘I picked it up just to get the feel of the object.’ How feeble that sounded, Berg thought: almost as if he were a peasant who had never before seen a telephone. But what other explanation could he give? He couldn’t possibly examine the motives behind every single move he made.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Lazlow said. ‘You had no information to give him. You expected none from him. You had no ulterior motives, like wanting to make a long distance telephone call without paying for it. So—you picked up the telephone out of sheer curiosity.’
‘Out of curiosity, that’s right.’
‘I must ask you to appreciate one thing, Berg. The Site Agent is a busy man. He is the busiest man I’ve ever met. Even I have second thoughts about ringing him. In future I must ask you to be very careful. You will have to consult me prior to any telephone call you might want to make to him. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ Berg said, feeling suddenly ashamed of himself.
Lazlow rose from his desk and returned to the window. With his back to Berg he said, ‘We have to clarify matters like this from the very start. Misunderstandings can be painful.’
After a moment’s silence Berg realised that the interview—for want of a better word—was at an end. He went out of the room. He was more than ashamed, he was irritated by his own stupidity. Yet he could not help feeling that to some extent he had been a victim of ignorance. How could he have known that by the simple act of picking up the telephone he was automatically connected to the Site Agent? How could he have known that the telephone was not used to dial outside numbers? But even with these justifications he was annoyed at himself, partly because he had behaved so thoughtlessly and partly because he had not defended himself more strongly in front of Lazlow. What would Lazlow think of him now? As a man unfit to hold responsibility? As a man unsuited to promotion? As a fool?
Miss Selz was fixing her scarf into position.
‘That’s another day. What sort of lodgings have they given you?’
‘I’m staying with a Mrs Jacobitz,’ Berg said and sat down. He stared miserably at the blank wall outside. At the joint in the metal pipe a drip of rust-coloured water had formed.
‘Mrs Jacobitz? She’s the one who has her niece living with her, isn’t she?’
‘Do you know them?’
‘Not personally,’ Miss Selz said, gathering her belongings together. ‘But I’ve heard of them.’
‘What have you heard?’
‘Nothing very interesting. See you in the morning, Berg.’
When he was alone Berg stared at the wall until the globule of water had slipped from the pipe and another one had begun to form. He then turned his eyes on the accursed telephone, seized by a sudden impulse to pick it up and say something—anything, anything at all—to the Site Agent. His hand, of its own accord, wandered to the instrument before he drew it back to his side. What lunacy it would be to repeat the mistake. He felt depressed and a little tired. Depressed by the incident and tired by a day that had seemed unnaturally long, a day in which he had done no real work at all. He consoled himself with the thought that he was unlikely to make any more mistakes and that once his work had started in earnest things would be very different.
