The Erasers - Alain Robbe-Grillet

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Alain Robbe-Grillet

The Erasers

TRANSLATEDBY

RICHARDHOWARD

1964Originally published as

Les Gommes

1953

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Time that sees all has found you out

against your will.

Sophocles

PROLOGUE

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1

n the dimness of the caf, the manager i

arranging the tables and chairs, thashtrays, the siphons of soda water; it i

six in the morning.

He has no need to see distinctly, hdoes not even know what he is doing. H

s still asleep. Very ancient laws rul

every detail of his gestures, saved fo

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once from the uncertainty of huma

ntentions; each second marks a pur

movement: a side-step, the chair eleve

nches out from the table, three wipes ohe rag, half-turn to the right, two step

forward, each second marks, perfect

even, unblurred. Thirty-one. Thirty-two

Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five

Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Each second i

ts exact place.

Soon unfortunately time will nonger be master. Wrapped in their aur

of doubt and error, this days events

however insignificant they may be, wiln a few seconds begin their task

gradually encroaching upon the idea

order, cunningly introducing a

occasional inversion, a discrepancy,

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confusion, a warp, in order t

accomplish their work: a day in earl

winter without plan, without direction

ncomprehensible and monstrous. But s still too early, the street door has jus

been unbolted, the only person on th

scene has not yet recovered his ow

existence. It is the moment when th

dozen chairs gently come down from th

mitation marble tables where they hav

spent the night. Nothing else. Aautomatons arm puts the setting back i

place.

When everything is ready, the lighgoes on

A fat man is standing here, the manager

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rying to get his bearings among th

ables and chairs. Over the bar, the lon

mirror where a sick image floats, th

manager, greenish, his features blurrediverish and fleshy in his aquarium.

On the other side, behind the mirror

he manager again who dissolves slowln the dawning light from the street. It i

no doubt this silhouette that has just pu

he caf in order; now it need onl

disappear. In the mirror flickers threflection of this ghost, already almos

completely decomposed; and beyond

ncreasingly undecided, the waverinrigmarole of shadows: the manager, th

manager, the manager The manager,

mournful nebula, drowned in his halo.

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Painfully the manager emerges. H

fishes up again some random snatche

hat are still floating around him. N

need to hurry, theres not much current a

his hour.

He leans on both arms against thable, body tilted forward, not wid

awake, his eyes staring at something

hat fool Antoine with his Swediscalisthenics every morning. And his pin

ie the other day, yesterday. Today i

Tuesday: Jeannettes coming later.

Funny little spot; this marbles n

good, everything stains it. It looks lik

blood. Daniel Dupont last night;

stones throw from here. Funny business

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a burglar would never have gone into

ighted room on purpose, the man mus

have wanted to kill him. Revenge, o

what? Clumsy in any case. That waesterday. Look for it in the mornin

paper. Oh yes, Jeannettes coming later

And have her buyno, tomorrow.

An absent-minded wipe of the rag

as an excuse, over the funny spot. On

way or another vague masses pass, ou

of reach; or else theyre just holes.

Jeannette will have to light the stov

right away; its getting cold early thi

ear. The pharmacist says it always doef it rained on July fourteenth; mayb

hes right. Of course that other foo

Antoine, whos always right, just had t

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prove the opposite. And the pharmacis

was beginning to get mad, four or fiv

glasses of white wine are enough fo

him; but Antoine doesnt see anythingFortunately, the manager was there. I

was yesterday. Or Sunday? It wa

Sunday; Antoine had his hat; it make

him look sharp, that hat. His hat and hi

pink tie! No, wait, he had his tie o

esterday too. No. Besides, wha

difference can it make?A peevish wipe of the rag onc

again wipes yesterdays dust off th

able top. The manager straightens up.Against the glass he notices th

reverse of the sign Furnished Rooms

from which two letters have bee

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missing for seventeen years; fo

seventeen years he has been going to pu

hem back. It was already like that i

Paulines time; they had said when thefirst came

Besides, there is only one room t

rent, so in any case its ridiculous. Aglance at the clock. Six-thirty. Wake th

man up.

Get to work, slacker!This time he has spoken almos

aloud, with a grimace of disgust on hi

ips. The manager is not in a good mood

he has not had enough sleep.

To tell the truth, hes not often in

good mood.

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On the second floor, at the end of

hallway, the manager knocks, waits

few seconds and, since he hears n

answer, knocks again, several times,

ittle louder. On the other side of th

door an alarm clock goes off. His righhand frozen in its gesture, the manage

keeps listening, spitefully waiting t

discover the sleepers reactions.

But no one turns off the alarm. Afte

a minute or so it stops of its own accor

with astonishment on a few last abortiv

sounds.

The manager knocks again: stil

nothing. He cracks open the door an

puts his head inside; in the dim mornin

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ight he sees the unmade bed, the room i

disorder. He walks in and inspects th

premises: nothing suspicious, only th

empty bed, a double bed, without pillow, with a single depression marke

n the middle of the bolster, the blanket

hrown back toward the foot of the bed

on the dresser, the enamel basin full o

dirty water. All right, the man ha

already left, its his business after al

He went out without going through thcaf, he knew there wouldnt be any ho

coffee yet and after all he didnt have t

say anything. The manager leaves with

shrug; he does not like people who geup ahead of time.

Downstairs, he finds someon

waiting, an ordinary-looking man, a littl

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shabby, not a regular customer. Th

manager goes behind his bar, turns on a

extra lamp and stares at the custome

rudely, ready to spit in his face that itoo early for coffee. But the other ma

merely asks:

Monsieur Wallas, please?Hes gone, the manager says

scoring a point all the same.

When did he leave? the man asksrather surprised.

This morning.

What time this morning?

An anxious glance at his watch, the

at the clock.

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I havent any idea, the manage

says.

You didnt see him leave?

If I had seen him leave, Id know

when it was.

A pitying pout emphasizes this eassuccess. The other man thinks for a few

seconds and then says:

Then you dont know when hel

be coming back either?

The manager does not even answer

He attacks on new grounds:

What can I serve you?

Coffeeblack, the man says.

No coffee this early, the manage

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says.

Definitely a good victim, a sad littl

spiders face, perpetually reconstitutin

he tatters of his frayed intelligence

Besides, how could he know that thi

Wallas came last night to this obscur

bar in the Rue des Arpenteurs? Itunnatural.

Having played all his cards for th

moment, the manager is no longenterested in his visitor. He dries hi

bottles with an absent-minde

expression and, since the other man i

not drinking anything, he turns off thwo lamps, one after the other. There

plenty of daylight now.

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The man has gone, mumbling somethin

ncomprehensible. The manager find

himself back among his wreckage, th

spots on the marble, the varnish of thchairs which the dirt makes sticky i

places, the mutilated sign on the glass

But he is the victim of more insisten

specters, spots darker than those of th

wine disturb his vision. He tries to brus

hem away, but it is no use; at every ste

he bumps into another The movement oan arm, the music of idle words, Pauline

sweet Pauline.

Sweet Pauline, who died sstrangely, so long ago. Strange