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.

He left the office and went out to the street. On the opposite corner a man was leaning against the wall of a house, reading a newspaper. He dropped the paper an inch or so and looked across at Berg for a second, before raising the paper again. For some reason, Berg had the odd idea that this man was watching him. He walked to the next corner and looked back and as he turned thought he saw a movement of the paper—as if the man had again been scrutinising him. But Berg could not be sure. If he were being watched, what reason could there be, unless it was mere curiosity. Or unless—an idea that came to him in a flash—unless he had been detailed to observe Berg’s movements, to check on him as a possible security risk. This idea, on reflection, was fatuous. A face behind a newspaper was so blatant as to be absurd: surely security people used more sophisticated techniques?

On the next corner, Berg glanced back again. But by this time the man was nowhere to be seen. Berg turned off the main road and walked back towards the house. A deep depression that he was unable to shake off had fallen upon him.