The Crack

 

 

The man hesitated as he climbed the stairs that led from one subway platform to another. As a result of his momentary irresolution (he didn’t know whether he should proceed or wait, go forward or backward - in fact, he didn’t know whether he’d been going down or up), serious turmoil broke out. The dense mass of people behind him broke the intricate yet casual mesh of time and space, scattering like an exploding star that ushers in a diaspora of light or an eclipse. Bewildered men slipped, women screamed, children were trampled, an old man lost his wig and a lady her false teeth, a street vendor’s goods were scattered about, someone seized the opportunity to steal some magazines from a kiosk, there was a case of attempted rape, a wristwatch flew through the air, and several women accidentally exchanged handbags.

The man was subsequently arrested and accused of disturbing the peace. He too had suffered the consequences of his own indiscretion: in the confusion, he’d broken a tooth. It was ascertained that at the precise moment the incident occurred, the man who hesitated on the stairs that led from one platform to another (eighty feet below ground where there is artificial light day and night) had been in position three of line fifteen - to the extent that positions and lines can be established in reference to people going up and down stairs.

The interrogation took place on a cold, damp afternoon during the month of November. The man asked to know which equinox had last occurred; as a result of his hesitation, which had led to the accident, his ideas about the world were in a state of disarray.

‘It’s winter, of course,’ the civil servant in charge of the interrogation answered with evident disdain.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ the man said timidly. ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your kind reply,’ he added.

‘Leaving winter aside,’ the civil servant softened his tone, ‘could you explain to me the cause of this unfortunate incident?’

The man looked at one green wall, then another. When he’d entered the building, they had seemed gray to him; but like so many other things, it must have been a false impression - unless of course, at some moment they were to become gray again. Who knows what the future will bring?

‘Well, sir,’ he cleared his throat. He didn’t see a glass of water anywhere and it seemed inappropriate to request one. Perhaps it was better not to ask for anything. Not even for understanding. Bare, windowless walls. Rectangular, but narrow, rooms.

The civil servant seemed slightly annoyed. That’s how he seemed. He’d never seen a civil servant who hadn’t seemed annoyed. It was something like an occupational hazard or a bad habit one picks up from living with someone.

‘All of a sudden,’ said the man, ‘I didn’t know whether to go forward or not. I know perfectly well that this is strange. It’s strange to have a thought like that while going up or down the stairs. Or perhaps even while doing anything at all.’

‘What step were you on?’ the civil servant asked, with professional coldness.

‘I can’t say for certain,’ the man answered truthfully. ‘I’d like to find out. I’m certain someone must know. Some people always count the steps, in either direction, whether they’re coming or going.’

‘And you? Were you coming or going?’

‘I was undecided. Slightly hesitant. Do you know what I mean?’ Suddenly, as his gaze once again moved across the green surface of the wall, the man spotted a tiny opening, an almost imperceptible crack. He didn’t know whether the crack had been there when he’d looked at the wall for the first or second time, or whether it had opened up at that very moment. Because there must have been a time when the wall was completely smooth - gray or green, with no cracks in it. And how would he know when that little fissure had appeared? In any case, it was very awkward not to know whether it was an ancient crack or a modern one. He looked at it intently, trying to understand it.

‘My question still stands,’ the civil servant insisted in a tone of indolent severity. He had to proceed as if he were dealing with a child. Remain patient. That’s what the instructors said. It was an old but effective system. Repetition leads to success by means of wear and tear. Repetition destroys. ‘What step were you on?’

The man thought the crack seemed a little wider, but he didn’t know if it was an optical illusion or if it had really grown. In any case, he said to himself, at some point it will grow, it’s a question of paying attention, or perhaps of not paying attention.

T couldn’t say for certain,’ said the man. ‘Are there any optical illusions in this room?’

The civil servant did not appear surprised. In fact, functionaries almost never appear surprised by anything, which is part of their function.

‘No,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘Were you coming or going?’

‘Someone must know,’ the man replied, his gaze fixed on the wall. So it was possible the crack had grown at that very moment, grown silently in the green darkness, like a malignant cell with an intention that differed from that of all the other cells.

‘Why not you?’ the civil servant asked.

‘It all happened so fast,’ the man said aloud, although not addressing the civil servant in particular. He was trying to describe the phenomenon accurately.

The hole in the wall looked harmless, but that was probably just an illusion.

‘I suppose I was going down, or up, it’s all the same. There were stairs ahead of me and stairs behind. It was so crowded I couldn’t see the steps until they were right below my feet. There were so many of us. A vague awareness of being part of the horde. I went through the motions mechanically, like always.’

‘Were you going up or down?’ the civil servant repeated in a tone of routine patience. The man felt it was a case of impersonal deference, a duty on the part of the functionary whose patience was not directed specifically at him. It was a professional habit, not precisely a good habit.

‘We’re talking about a single staircase,’ said the man, ‘that can lead either up or down. It all depends on the decision one took previously. The steps are all the same: cement, gray, the same width. I experienced a minor hesitation. In the middle of the staircase, with throngs in front of me and throngs behind, I was actually uncertain whether I was going up or down. I don’t know if you can understand what having that tiny doubt means, sir. It’s a type of confusion. Either I was going up or I was going down - which, in part, was the basis of my hesitation - and suddenly I didn’t know what to do. My right foot remained suspended in the air for a moment. The significance of the act was painfully clear to me. I couldn’t put my foot down until I knew how to rest it. It was, therefore, necessary to resolve that uncertainty.’

The crack in the wall was the size of a small coin. But before it had looked no larger than the head of a pin. Or was it that, before, he hadn’t realized its true size? The difficulty in grasping reality lies in the concept of time, he thought. In the absence of continuity, you have to accept that no reality exists aside from the present. The present. Like that precise moment when, uncertain whether he was going up or down, it had been impossible to rest his foot. Above the crack he could now make out a thin, wavy line leading upward - if one looked at it from below - or downward - if one looked at it from above. The direction was determined, in this instance, by the level at which the eye was situated.

‘Perhaps you recall,’ the civil servant suggested, almost gently, ‘whether you were going up or down the stairs at the instant immediately preceding the incident you are recounting.’

‘It’s odd that the same instrument is good for going up and down - at heart two antithetical actions,’ the man thought aloud. ‘The stairs are more worn toward the middle, where we step - whether we’re going up or down. I thought that if I rested my foot, I would only deepen the indentation. A moment before hesitating,’ he continued, ‘a gap opened in my memory. Memory can drift, spring a leak. Mine got stuck in the underground, it was no use.’

‘According to your charts,’ the civil servant interrupted forcefully, ‘you’d never suffered from amnesia before.’

‘No,’ the man stated. ‘It’s a literary device. It was an unexpected crack.’

The line rose in the direction of the ceiling. Only with effort could he follow it because he had difficulty seeing something that faraway. When submerged, only an abstraction allows us to know whether the current is taking us to the source or the outlet of the river, to where it begins or ends.

‘A moment before the accident,’ the civil servant repeated, ‘were you going up or down?’

‘It was just a brief hesitation. Going up? Going down? I had my foot... in the air ... I was about to put it down, and suddenly: uncertainty. There was nothing dramatic about it, there was just a kind of confusion. Placing my foot on the step would represent a decisive act. I held it in the air for a few moments. It was an uncomfortable but less definitive position.’

‘What type of hesitation was it?’ asked the civil servant, irate. He was either fed up or had changed tactics. The crack branched off in different directions. No one’s perfect. It wasn’t clear whether those ramifications led somewhere.

‘Given my uncertainty, I didn’t act,’ the man confessed. ‘It seemed wiser to wait, wait until my foot could once again resume its duty without any confusion, until my leg would no longer ask inadmissible questions.’

‘What type of hesitation was it?’ the civil servant repeated gruffly.

‘It was the derivative sort. Class G. Considered dangerous. There’s no need to check the catalog, sir,’ said the man, defeated. ‘A hesitation with ramifications. The sort that comes with a family, as a result of which it’s no longer a question of determining if you’re going up or down the stairs: it doesn’t matter, that’s meaningless. So the people behind you - whether you’re going up or down there’s always a horde ahead of you and another in back - knock into one another, accidentally. Some people yell, everyone demands to know what’s happening, the sirens wail, the walls shake and crack, children cry, ladies lose buttons and umbrellas, the inspectors meet, and civil servants investigate the irregularity.’ The crack was extending like the ripple that follows a fish. ‘Could you give me a cigarette?’