The Erasers by Alain Robbe-Grillet Read Free Book Online Page A

man shouts.
    As he passes him, Wallas nods.
    “ Not so warm this morning! ”
    “ Winter ’ s coming, ” the man answers.
    With a low moan the tug salutes; under the cluster of metal beams, Wallas glimpses the trail of dissolving steam. He pushes the gate. An electric bell indicates that the workman at the other end is about to set the machinery in motion. At the moment Wallas closes the gate, the roadway behind him comes apart, the platform begins to tip up with a noise of motors and gears.
     
    Wallas finally turns into a wide avenue that looks much like the Boulevard Circulaire he left at dawn, except for the canal, which is replaced here by a central sidewalk planted with very young trees; adjoining houses of five or six stories alternate with more modest structures of almost rural appearance and buildings evidently used for industrial purposes. Wallas is surprised to find more examples of this suburban mixture. Since he has crossed the street to turn right in this new direction, he reads with even more surprise the words “ Boulevard Circu laire ” on the building at the corner. He turns back, disconcerted.
    He cannot have been walking in a circle, since he had gone straight ahead ever since the Rue des Arpenteurs; he has probably walked too far south and bypassed a segment of the city. He will have to ask his way.
    People in the street are hurrying past on their errands, Wallas prefers not to delay them. He decides on a woman in an apron who is washing the sidewalk in front of her shop on the other side of the street. Wallas approaches but he is not sure how to ask his question: for the moment he has no precise destination; as for the police station where he is supposed to go a little later, he is reluctant to mention it, less from professional discretion than because of his desire to remain in a convenient neutrality rather than carelessly inspiring fear or merely curiosity. The same is true for the courthouse which, he has been told, is opposite the police station, but whose faint artistic renown is not enough to motivate the interest he would appear to be taking in it. The woman straightens up when she sees him beside her; she stops the movement of her broom.
    “ Excuse me, Madame, can you tell me how to get to the central post office? ”
    After a moment ’ s reflection, she answers:
    “ The central post office; what do you mean, the central post office? ”
    “ I mean the main post office. ”
    This does not seem to be the right question. Maybe there are several main post offices and none located in the center of town. The woman looks at her broom and says:
    “ You ’ ll find a post office right near here, on the parkway. ” She points with her chin. “ People usually go there. But it ’ s probably closed at this hour. ”
    So his question meant something: there is only one post office with a telegraph office open all night.
    “ Yes, that ’ s just it, there must be a post office open for sending telegrams. ”
    This remark unfortunately seems to awaken the woman ’ s interest:
    “ Oh, it ’ s for sending a telegram! ”
    She glances at her broom, while Wallas tries to get off with a vague “ yes. ”
    “ Nothing serious, I hope? ” the woman says.
    The question has not been asked in a specifically interrogative way, rather as a polite, slightly dubitative wish; but then she says nothing more and Wallas feels he must answer.
    “ No, no, ” he says, “ thanks. ”
    This is a lie too, since a man has died during the night. Should he explain that it is no one in his family?
    “ Well, ” the woman says, “ if you ’ re not in a hurry, there ’ s a post office here that ’ ll be open at eight. ”
    This is what making up stories gets you into. Now to whom would he send a telegram, and what about? How can he manage to get back where he started? Observing his dissatisfied expression, the woman finally adds:
    “ There ’ s a post office on the Avenue Christian-Charles, but I don ’ t know