I returned and compared the door number with the one scribbled on my card: sure enough, I had made a mistake, I had taken the second digit for an eight instead of a three. So my real destination was 3383. The fact that I had made a mistake and misread a number was a tremendous comfort to me. Until now, everything had seemed accidental but in reality had gone according to some plan. But this visit to the Archives, that was a genuine accident. And the Building was responsible for it: the room number had been written in too carelessly. Human error, then, still operated here; mystery and freedom were still in the realm of possibility. Then too, the examining magistrate was as much to blame as I, the defendant—we would have a good laugh together and the matter would be dismissed. I headed for 3383 confidently. Judging from the great number of phones on every desk, 3383 was not just another office. I went straight to the head official’s door—but found no knob to turn.
What do You think about Memoirs Found In A Bathtub?
