The Curfew by Jesse Ball Page A

the woman in a low voice.
    —Shush, Clara. Don’t talk like that, not even here.
    Gerard came in.
    —Come with me. I have something I want to show you.
    James was whispering something to Clara. No one seemed to be paying any attention. William got up.
    —All right, then.
    At the back of the house, there was a door to an addition. This addition was only the length of a room and unheated. Gerard handed William a coat from a pile. He himself put on a coat. They sat on stools.
    —Is everyone here involved? asked William.
    —Involved?
    Gerard laughed.
    —The point is: information like that doesn’t exist. Who is, who isn’t involved: it doesn’t matter. We simply spread the method , and people act on their own. They don’t need to tell anyone.
    —The method?
    —The method. It’s very simple. Everyone will soon have learned of it, through channels exactly like this. Just one person telling someone else, someone trusted.
    —Is it that bad?
    —If you’re caught with it in writing, less than a page of text, you’re shot. Interrogated, shot. Most people who get interrogated say the same thing, and it’s true.
    —What’s that?
    —They found a piece of paper. They don’t know anything about it. But in this town, there hasn’t been too much printing yet. That’s the dangerous part, the printing. But it spreads by word, also.
    —What is it?
    William had been struggling with himself. He wanted to leave, to go home and forget about the whole thing. He could feel it, like a door opening out of sight. This was something he didn’t want to know, or be a part of. But he was curious, yes he was, and he was lonely, too, and here he was sitting with Gerard, a man he had known many years, and they were talking. Also, he was wearing a coat that wasn’t his, a leather coat such as he would never ordinarily wear. There were things in the pockets, but he did not look to see what they were.
    —Do you remember the time we went boating, you and Louisa, Ana and I?
    William nodded.
    —Do you remember when that man asked to take a picture of us, and Louisa didn’t want him to? The man on the pier?
    —I do.
    —And then he took the picture anyway, and Louisa got angry, but we were already out in the current, and we didn’t want to turn back. I sometimes think …
    Gerard had taken the bottle with him. He took a swig from it.
    —I sometimes think if we had gone back, then, everything would have changed, and she wouldn’t have been shot.
    William’s mouth was dry. The idea of Louisa was all close spaces, distances, thick smells. It was inaccessible like the inside of a stone.
    —What is the method? he asked.
    —The method for disgovernance. Other revolutionary movements fail when they are found out. This one just begins when it is found out. It is impossible to stop because there are no ringleaders. It is simple enough to describe in a phrase or two the whole extent of it. Any member of the government, any member of the police, of the secret police, all are targets. You live your life, and do nothing out of the ordinary. But if, at some moment, you find yourself in a position to harm one of the targets, you do. Then you continue on as if nothing has happened. You never go out of your way to make such an opportunity come to pass. Not even one step out of your way. And yet, without exception, the targets must each day place themselves in danger before the citizenry, and cause such opportunities to exist. One doesn’t prepare oneself, except mentally. One never speaks of it, except to spread the idea, and that is better done by sheets of paper left here and there.
    Gerard was silent for a minute. He drummed his hand on the table. He took another sip of wine.
    —The perfect crime consists of randomness: you happen to be passing a table on which a diamond necklace is lying; everyone has momentarily turned away; you snatch the necklace and continue; you are now the possessor of a diamond necklace. Having randomly arrived there,