Memoirs Found In a Bathtub by Stanislaw Lem Read Free Book Online Page B

entered and was amazed to see, straight ahead, a spiral staircase. There was an unusually cold draft. I put out my hand—the chill seemed to come from above, so I started climbing. At the top only the glass of an open door glimmered in the dimness. I found myself on the threshold of a dark chapel. Inside, under a crucifix lay an open coffin. The flickering candles threw little light on the dead man’s face. Massive benches stood on either side of the aisle, barely visible in the darkness, and beyond them were niches, their contents altogether hidden. I heard heels clicking on stone but could see no one. I groped up the aisle, pondering my next move, when my eyes happed to fall on the face of the dead man—it was that little old man! He lay in the casket, covered with a flag that fell to the ground in elaborate folds. His face, serene and waxen, was nestled in starched lace; the spectacles were gone—perhaps that was why his features lacked their former look of alarm and mischief. Now he was quite solemn, as if thoroughly settled, composed. The hands were carefully arranged on either side of the flag, but one little finger had refused to bend with the rest and stuck out in a mocking, or warning gesture. It called attention to itself. From high up came a single note, then a second, with the wheeze and whine of an organ. It sounded as if some passer-by had tried a few notes on the keyboard and then had given up. Again there was silence.
    The honors shown the dead man puzzled me; in fact, the whole situation was very odd. I stood at the foot of the casket, my feet freezing, and caught a warm whiff of stearin. A candlewick hissed. Then there was a light tap on my shoulder and a whisper in my ear:
    “He’s already been searched.”
    “What?” I blurted out. The word, though certainly not shouted, set up a long and loud echo in the place. A tall officer stood nearby. His face was pale and bloated, his nose blue. A stiff white collar turned back to front shone from under the uniform lapels.
    “Did you say something, uh, Father?” I asked. He closed his eyes solemnly, as if to acknowledge my presence as discreetly as possible.
    “No, no—a misunderstanding… I took you for someone else. Anyway, I’m not a priest, I’m a monk.”
    “I see.”
    We stood a while in silence. He lowered his head: it was shaven and covered with a small skullcap.
    “Pardon my asking … you were acquainted with the deceased?”
    “In a way … though not very well,” I replied. Though all I could see of his eyes were tiny reflections from the candles, it was obvious he was slowly looking me over.
    “Paying your last respects?” he whispered with an unpleasant familiarity, and scrutinized me even more closely. I countered with a bold, contemptuous stare. He stiffened.
    “You were assigned here then,” he sighed. I said nothing.
    “There will be Mass,” he observed piously. “Obsequies first, then Mass. If you wish…”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “Of course not.”
    It was growing colder, an icy wind stirred the candles. Then something near the casket caught my eye: a large, heavy air conditioner, churning out freezing air through its metal grating.
    “Not a bad arrangement,” I remarked. The monk looked quickly over his shoulder and touched my sleeve with an incredibly white, soft hand.
    “Permit me to report,” he whispered, “…many cases of gross negligence, incompetency, conduct not becoming an officer… The sergeant prior is not performing his duties…”
    He said this through his teeth, at the same time watching me closely, ready to retreat at any moment. But I kept silent, my eyes fixed on the shadowy dead man. This lack of response seemed to embolden the monk.
    “Of course, it’s none of my business… I hardly dare,” he breathed in my ear. “But if I might ask, in the hope that I could be of some assistance, in the course of duty … your orders are from … high up?”
    “That’s right,” I said. He