Molinas continued to defend himself, but he was tired. Sbrinzel’s words echoed inside his head as if it were a bell. There seemed to be a leaden weight at the nape of his neck. Shivering fits. A confined, burning feeling in the chest. Thoroughgoing influenza, in fact. And not being able to mention it to anyone, because that would make it worse. And that wretched spy Sbrinzel, who had obviously guessed that he didn’t feel well and could hardly wait for his final collapse.
No, he mustn’t give in. The following day the Colonel was still at his post, though his temperature was almost 103 and his head felt like molten lead. “How come, sir, you’re so flushed, eh?”
“The cold, perhaps,” answered the Colonel, determined not to weaken.
“Eh, sir, I do believe you’re shivering. Why on earth are you shivering like that?”
“Shivering? Absolute nonsense.”
“Eh, sir, I really would be upset if you didn’t feel well.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, I say . . . just a slight irritation in the throat . . .” A hundred and two point six, a hundred and two point eight. The Colonel would appear at the office at the usual time with the regularity of a robot, divide the work up among his juniors and then sit motionless at his desk, racked by bursts of hollow coughing.
“Eh, sir, it sounds as though you’ve caught bronchitis, eh?”
“No, no, it’s all in the throat . . . I’m perfectly well, I assure you.”
On the fourth day he was almost defeated. “Let’s go out and have a coffee,” suggested Sbrinzel, obviously intending to put him to some sort of test. Outside it was bitterly cold, and the Colonel’s teeth were chattering even in the warm office.
“No thanks; I’ve got a lot to do today.”
“Eh, we won’t be long: a couple of minutes.”
“No thanks, old fellow.”
“Perhaps you’re not feeling too good, eh?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“Eh, I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that you do look a little drawn today . . .”
On the fifth day he could hardly stand up. None of the juniors with influenza (there were sixteen by now) had yet reappeared. Where were they? Telephone calls to their homes for news were greeted by relatives with the answer “He’s not here” without further explanation. In prison? In hiding? Deported? Molinas was certain that he had pneumonia but didn’t dare consult a doctor, who would certainly tell him to go to bed and possibly inform the Ministry.
Sixth day. All twenty-four desks were empty: their occupants all had influenza. Sbrinzel sniggered more insinuatingly than ever: “Eh, eh, you can hardly say the Chief is wrong to distrust intellectuals! What remains there of the famous Cip? Delivery men, porters, night watchmen, clerks, the simple souls, they’re the ones who believe whole-heartedly! . . . While the geniuses are all laid low, the geniuses, the government haters! . . . Eh, eh, sir, you’re the only exception, still holding out!” Sbrinzel winked, as if implying “but you’re of the same ilk and you’ll go too!”
Eighth day. His chest like a pile of burning coals and with a temperature of almost 104, the Colonel entered his office at the usual time. He looked like a ghost. At the thought that Sbrinzel would soon be arriving and would have to be parried he felt a dull surge of sweetish nausea rise from deep within him, rise and rise like the water in a hand basin.
But this morning Sbrinzel was not so prompt. Molinas thought, Perhaps he knows I’ve got influenza, perhaps he’s already reported it and I’m already in disgrace, ruined—and that’s why he hasn’t appeared.
Shortly afterward he heard steps approaching across the silent empty room. Not Sbrinzel, but some slave of his, with the folder of messages. “And Sbrinzel?” asked the Colonel.
The man gestured despairingly: “He hasn’t come today. He’s not coming. He’s in bed.”
“With what?”
“He’s got a roaring temperature.”
“Who? Sbrinzel?”
“He’s got influenza too . . . and an absolutely prize case at that.”
“Influenza? Sbrinzel? You must be joking.”
“Why? What’s odd about it? He wasn’t at all well yesterday either . . .”
The Colonel straightened up on his chair. A burst of life and hope came over him. He was safe, safe! He had won! That miserable spy had fallen, not he! Molinas felt better already, no more sickness, no more burning in his chest, no more temperature. The worst was over.
He breathed deeply. For the first time in years he raised his eyes to the windows and saw, beyond the frozen roofs and under the crystal clear sky, the distant mountains gleaming, white with snow. They looked like silver clouds sailing gaily along, slow-moving, above the worries of the earth. He looked at them: for how long had he been oblivious to their existence? He thought, How different they are from us men, God, how pure and beautiful.
The Landslide
HE WAS AWOKEN BY THE RINGING OF THE TELEPHONE. It was the editor of his newspaper. “Leave by car immediately,” he said. “There’s been a great landslide in Valle Ortica . . . yes, Valle Ortica, near the village of Goro . . . a whole village swept away, probably lots of dead. Anyhow you’ll see. Don’t lose any time about it. And please—do your best.”
This was the first time he’d been entrusted with an important assignment, and he was somewhat worried by the responsibility. However, taking stock of the time available to him, he felt confident. The place was about 130 miles away—he would be there in three hours. So he would have the whole afternoon to find out his facts and write his article. Easy, really; he would be able to distinguish himself without too much effort.
It was a cold February morning. The roads were almost empty and he was able to drive very fast. Almost before he’d expected, he saw the outlines of the hills approaching; then, veiled in mist, the snow-covered peaks.
Meanwhile, he thought about the landslide. Perhaps it was a real disaster, with hundreds of victims; he might have to write a couple of columns for two or three days in succession; he wasn’t
