He looked at me in surprise. I felt better now I’d declared this sudden intention. I watched him slip some small object into his pocket and then straighten up, growing taller and taller, towering above me, and again an elusive memory was briefly invoked. I forgot about it when he said, ‘Spector might not like that’, adding quickly, ‘Aren’t you coming out to lunch?’ Obviously, he had found whatever he’d come back for; yet he still seemed in no hurry to go. I told him I would eat a sandwich at my desk as I always did, not mentioning that I didn’t like to emphasize my friendlessness by going out alone among the crowds at this time of day; at night, when fewer people were about, I felt less self-conscious. ‘That’s not enough. You must lunch with me one day soon. I’ll show you a good place quite near.’ He looked at me a moment longer with a slight frown, as though his good nature were struggling with a different feeling, then turned, and, suddenly in a hurry, went out of the room.
At any other time I’d have been delighted at this sign of relenting. But today I was too distracted and anxious to trust either appearances or my own judgement. Nor could I forget that Link, too, had joined the conspiracy of accusing eyes which had condemned me with such assured unanimity. For all I knew, his return might have been part of some plot they’d all concocted for my further humiliation. Besides, I was troubled by an unaccountable feeling of profound guilt, quite apart from the matter of the flat (which, after all, had been forced on me), as though I were culpable in a deeper sense, which would appal me if I were to face it.
That evening, when I was so depressed I could hardly bear my own company, Spector, by some curious chance, paid me one of his rare visits; it was so long since the last that I’d ceased to expect him. Many times I’d heard steps on the stairs which I’d thought were his, but they’d always stopped lower down, so that I knew they must be those of the night-watchman or of the manager or his assistant, who sometimes worked very late, mysteriously occupied in one of the many storerooms where countless dusty papers were filed away. I didn’t even hear the footsteps this time till they were mounting the last flight towards my door, which I hurried to open. Instantly, all my troubles were gone. I still experienced this relief and pleasure whenever I met Spector; in his presence all my apprehensions faded away, as if he supplied a vital quality that I at other times lacked — with him I was no longer vulnerable and exposed; some nameless handicap which usually limited me was removed, so that I could be happy and relaxed at last.
I remember that he was especially charming that evening, taking me out to dine, entertaining me in his usual lavish style. I believe he mentioned some crisis that had kept him from coming to see me before. But I paid little attention to what he said, lost in the sheer luxury of being with him and feeling that words were superfluous because there was between us the constant undercurrent of an understanding far more intimate than speech could ever achieve. Though in my daydreams I liked to play the part of a lonely hero, solitary and proud, to this man I’d relinquished myself utterly; I told myself that I would have rejoiced to show him my inmost secrets, if I’d had any, throwing myself wide open without reserve.
Yet I could see that it was a very one-sided and, in some ways, a very odd sort of relationship. While I wasn’t with him, I was aware that it was also an uncomfortable one and possibly even detrimental to me. Though I knew so little about him, the duality which I’d discerned years before made me suspect him of possessing traits I disliked or of which I disapproved; yet I still allowed him to dominate me. I say ‘allowed’, but, of course, I couldn’t prevent it. His power over me was absolute and unchanging; I had only to see him, to come within the radius of his influence, to forget everything else and surrender completely again.
For some time, however, I’d been firmly resolved that at our next encounter this shouldn’t happen. I’d made up my mind to discuss certain subjects with him; I wouldn’t permit my thoughts to be diverted from them just because he put over me the power of his presence.
For one thing, I was determined to find out his official status at last, not only because it was absurd that I shouldn’t know it but also because I’d begun to suspect that he might be connected with the Athing itself — that mysterious hierarchy of anonymous individuals who ruled our lives through the public administrations, of which the Housing Bureau had lately become one of the most important. As I became better acquainted with city life, I’d gradually come to realize how extraordinary and abnormal an atmosphere, evolved out of mass emotion, now surrounded this particular branch of officialdom, an almost metaphysical atmosphere composed of hope, fear and respect, not unlike that which the Church used to enjoy.
Perhaps because I’d been so much alone, having a fairly active brain and little to occupy it, I’d recently been thinking about the collective state of mind, in which people lost all sense of proportion, regarding the possession of a home with superstitious awe and the near-hopeless search for one as a kind of perverted religion, to which they dedicated their time, health, personal relationships, work, peace of mind — everything was demanded by this Moloch before which they cringed, hypnotized by supernatural terrors and impossible hopes. Obviously, a new and most powerful weapon had been put in the hands of the Athing. And I’d been wondering if what appeared like defeatist apathy could be in reality a deliberate policy, an intentional prolongation of all the mental and physical suffering the shortage of houses involved, for the express purpose of fostering this abnormal atmosphere in which officials were exalted to godhead at the public expense — if so, it struck me as cynical and callous in the extreme.
Though I knew it was unwise to jump to conclusions about things I didn’t fully understand, I’d developed a highly critical, unsympathetic attitude to the Athing as a whole and the Housing Bureau in particular; I couldn’t bear to think of Spector condoning such unprincipled procedures as I suspected. I kept telling myself that I didn’t really believe he would; but I must have at least half believed it possible, since I was so anxious to discover the truth. And, as loyalty precluded questioning a third person, the only thing was to ask him directly.
I also wanted to hear his opinion of public events in general and to ask his advice about my private affairs, introducing the delicate subject of leaving the flat. All these were matters of great importance to me; but, though I’d thought about them so long that I knew by heart what I wanted to say, my memory failed me as usual as soon as we came face to face. I quite forgot the questions I’d meant to ask him.
Like a warm tropical sea, his influence surrounded me; far from resisting it, I plunged in gladly, too profoundly submerged even to see the dry land where I existed during his absence. When he congratulated me on my work, of which he’d apparently had good reports, I remember that I didn’t realize, though we were in the car, that the evening was already over and that I was being taken back to the flat. It must have been late, for the streets were deserted; with a clear run ahead, the big car travelled fast, developing, in its smooth, uninterrupted rush, a slight swaying motion that made me feel pleasantly drowsy. Dreamily, I sat watching the street lamps flash past, beads of light in an almost continuous chain, while the sculptured profile beside me lightened and darkened, lightened and darkened again.