Citizen Luka Maro / Margaret Connor

Citizen Luka Maro

Margaret Connor

Luka Maro was a small man in his middle thirties who kept quietly to himself and was prone to ulcers. He enjoyed easy listening music and was not fond of mustard. He lived in a little beige apartment in a little brown building in the middle of a little grey street and did not often have guests over. Luka Maro worked as a highly esteemed clerk at a big stately bank where, though his wages were nothing spectacular, he was entrusted with transfers of money so gargantuan that the average citizen’s eyes would goggle at the sight of so many zeros. When he managed an especially large transfer, he liked to read the little paper slip tied around the bills that said 3,025,000ƒ or 7,500,500ƒ and imagine what he would do with so much money. He thought of the newspaper advertisements for golden watches and country houses and smiled to himself, for he was content to live in his little beige apartment and wear nice, if plain, clothes. If one went to the Address Bureau and asked for the mailing address of one Luka Maro — Bank Clerk of the Seventh Degree, the pinch-faced woman behind the counter would flip through a great big binder before announcing, alas, that there was no Luka Maro registered with the bureau, and that one would do better to look him up in the phone book. Unbeknownst to her, however, there would be no Luka Maro in the phonebook. Only the post office had his address, to which every week they would deliver a small yellow letter and sometimes miscellaneous packages from a mail-order catalogue store.

In his beige apartment, Luka Maro had a black tabletop telephone. On Sundays, he called his father for an hour and on Wednesdays he called his mother for thirty minutes. His phone bill was not terribly high, however, because they did not live far from him. An icebox in his small kitchen held a pint of milk, a half bottle of wine, six or seven eggs, and perhaps an onion or some oranges. The clerk took most of his meals at a cafeteria down the little grey street where he paid in bills and coins. Though he worked in a bank, he did not like credit. The citizen Luka Maro went on living his little life with a healthful sense of privacy and reservation, never causing a stir or making a scene, until an incident shorty after his thirty-fifth birthday utterly upended his life. It was on a Tuesday, a drizzling day in the slushy part of spring. He woke at eight o’clock, washed and dressed, gathered his affairs, and, adjusting his wire rimmed glasses, walked down the little grey street to the cafeteria. He ordered and ate a plate of sausage and scrambled eggs with rye toast. He was still basking in the glow of his birthday get-together the previous Saturday, feeling that in turning thirty-five, he had crossed over some invisible delineation and was now a changed man. He arrived at the bank at ten minutes before nine. The rain had not let up. He greeted his superior and nodded hello to the gaggle of lower clerks under his command. His superior, a man with an unruly auburn beard who spent his day sitting behind a high mahogany desk, was engrossed in a steel ring ledger.

Luka Maro went about his day. He worked in a modest office on the second storey, except when he was called down for urgent or unwieldy requests. The Central Bank dealt with all matters its cadet branches were not authorized to handle. When at eleven an elderly widow appeared with a great sum of cash she wished to have changed from royals to florins, Luka Maro

was the one to count the rolls of golden coins and exchange them for a valise of large bills. At one o’ clock, Luka Maro returned from the café where he had taken his lunch. As he walked down the corridor to his office, he heard the raspy voice of his superior calling for him. He stood before the great mahogany desk. “Yes?” His superior looked up at him through hairy auburn eyebrows and cleared his throat. “Maro, are you handling the Héche account?” “No, Sir, Roan Walram is handling it.” “Walram is ill, unfortunately. Can you take over until he’s returned?” “Of course, Sir.” The bearded man cleared his throat again, pressing a pale pink handkerchief to his mouth. “Very good. Do you know where the Level Two Prioritized E-through-I Alphabetical Filing Room is?” Luka Maro did not. However, he did not like Roan Walram at all and would not let this opportunity escape from him. “No, Sir, where is it?” “It’s in the basement, second level. Down the north hallway, all the way at the end. I need the file on Héche, Horaume.” Luka Maro gave a curt bow. “Of course, Sir.” The auburn-bearded man returned to his sprawling ledger, and Luka Maro exited the room.

Luka Maro entered the stately elevator and instructed the operator to take him to the basement, second level. The operator, a boy in a brimmed cap and red uniform, the clerk did not know very well as he did not use the elevator often, instead preferring the stairs. His office was on the second storey of the bank, and he did not much mind the climb.

He had visited the basement in the past, yes, but only the first level, closest to the surface. He did not recognize the second level. Its ceiling hung low, which, in combination with its bare concrete walls, made him feel as though he were an explorer in a narrow uncharted cave. From the elevator room, hallways extended in three directions. He followed the corridor marked NORTH. This hall extends infinitely, Luka Maro thought, looking down the rows of identical steel doors. His footsteps echoed in his ears as he strode down the hallway. His throat was tight; he could not help imagining the ceiling caving in and burying him in that barren hall. The basement’s first level was darker and more sparse than the aboveground storeys, that was true, but the second level was like a prison or a hospital’s solemn surgical ward. Each steel door was shut tight, though from the outside no locks were visible.

When at last Luka Maro reached the door marked Prioritized E-through-I Alphabetical Filing Room, he was slightly out of breath and cursing Roan Walram. Grasping the heavy steel handle, he pulled open the door. It was a plain, dusty room lined wall-to-wall with filing cabinets. He scanned the drawers, checking the slips of paper marked FIG-FLA or GRA-GRE until he came to HEB-HEN. The dust on the drawer handle had been wiped away, he realized. That was to be expected, with all the activity on the Héche account. He opened the cabinet, wincing at the squeal from the neglected drawer slide. He flicked through the folders — how many Héches there were! Agénne, Ander-Marem, Baiste, Brenauda, Caliche, Étiuome, Flaçentin, Horaume senior, Horaume junior. He frowned at the files. He would have choked Roan Walram if he could have. He flipped through the two folders and, after finding that Junior was a child of five, replaced the latter file. As he

returned to the hall, he realized he was not sure what directions he had taken from the elevator room, complicating the matter of finding his way back. Trying to follow his footsteps, the second level now appeared to be a labyrinth of sorts. He turned right and left, never sure of himself. He tried to steady himself by reading the signs on the corridor walls. The placards bore familiar words, assuring him he had not strayed too far. Prioritized P-through-R Alphabetical Filing. Miscellaneous Records, XX23-XX46. Meeting Minutes, XX39-XX45. But as he continued, he found the new placards related tangentially at best to the business of banking: Atlases of the New World. Fauna of the Highlands. Near Eastern Philosophy, 1000-1500. What was more, the concrete walls and floors were giving way to plain white brick. Luka Maro was quite sure he was lost. The massive steel doors remained the same, though. After minutes of confused wandering, he felt himself no closer to the elevator, and had a suspicion he had descended further into the earth. He continued down the hall, clutching the Héche file close to his chest, for it now seemed something alien and precious. Rounding a corner, he found himself in a corridor that was well-lit and colorful, with green and white chevron tiling and painted yellow walls. He had seen that sort of hallway before, he realized, when he went to the Central Bureau of Records and Information to update his listed occupation from Clerk of the Sixth Degree to Clerk of the Seventh. Of course — it all made sense. It was only natural that the bank and the Bureau should share a library of records. Both were collecting information, after all, and it was all for efficiency’s sake. Perhaps the Central Hospital kept its medical files somewhere in the same subterranean complex. It was only natural, Luka Maro told himself, shuffling forward. Luka Maro’s confusion grew as he wandered down the hallway. He

felt sick and feverish, perhaps he needed to lie down. This was aggravating his ulcer, he thought. Onward went Luka Maro, now moving in a frenzy, following the twists and turns of the corridors, taking rights and lefts at random. The ceiling was cracking, he felt. The walls were closing in. Like a spooked mouse, he hurried on, delving deeper and deeper into the earth. He was no longer in the basement of the Central Bank; he was no longer in the basement of the Central Bureau. The halls were black, the lights were dim. He clutched the folder in his hands. The placards beside the doors were now nonsensical. Apocrypha, Heretical. Neologisms, Obsolete. A bead of sweat catching in his eye, his attention was arrested at one particular door exactly alike every other except in two key ways. First, it had no placard stating its purpose. Second, it was ajar. He was quite sure every door he had encountered so far was quite shut. Heart in his throat, he opened the door. In the glow of the electric light, he saw there were no filing cabinets, but walls of shelves packed with manila folders. He tried to find a sign — something! — to tell him what purpose the room held, but there were only shelves and files. Something tugged in his stomach, and his eyes fell upon a single folder, neither thick nor thin, that had just been replaced, for it was out of line with its neighbors. Even before he moved to inspect it, he knew what words would be embossed on its tab. Maro, Luka. He pulled the file and held it in his hand, not yet daring to open it. Perhaps it held his medical records, or was a list of his account transactions. Perhaps the bank kept files on its employees. It all made sense, or would make sense, he was sure. Luka Maro opened the folder. Luka Maro, Citizen. Male. Born XXX2. Lives at Apartment 404, 332 Trita Street. Occupation: Bank Clerk, Sixth Degree Seventh Degree. Telephone Number: 344.1091. He turned the page. Citizen Luka Maro lives alone.

Receives few guests; possible antisocial. Father [Maro, Chen] divorced mother [Altau, Vareaflor] in XXX9. Calls father 1 hr. on Sun, calls mother 30 mn. on Wed. Owns 33 books and 11 records. Eats every morning and evening at Cafeteria Marletter, known site for anarchist elements. Eats in afternoon at Café Hoerwint, known site for unionist elements. Maro is not registered with the public Address Bureau or public phone book. He felt sick to his stomach. The cafeteria, a site for subversives? Maro is not considered a seditionist. However, in XXX6, gave a sum of 50ƒ to [Quaren, Hodie-Enne], known nihilist. What stuff! He could read no more. He began to flip through the folder. Pages and pages of bills, he realized, phone bills and water bills and even copies of receipts from shops. Here and there he found a typed page, which he stopped to read. Woke at 8:00, washed and dressed (grey suit, brown tie). Ate breakfast at Marletter (eggs and sausage with yogurt). Took 32 Trolley to work. Some pages were detailed accounts of meetings he had had in his home, or else public parks and libraries. Maro likes popular films and popular music. Maro does not like children or geese, but is fond of street cats. He turned to the final page in the manila folder. Neatly typed, in proper secretarial format, were the “minutes” of his birthday celebration. Every word from him, his parents, and his two or three acquaintances was there for his perusal. It was like seeing a beetle under a magnifying glass or a distorted reflection in a dented mirror. He stuffed the folder back into the shelf and slammed the door shut behind him, dashing down the hallway.

Luka Maro’s body returned to his quiet, unassuming existence, but his mind could not. He thought of that manila folder while tossing and turning in his bed after midnight or while managing the Manneken account at his slanted oak desk. What had the file wanted? He was not a subversive, the profile stated. He was just Luka Maro, Citizen.

He resolved to do something, anything, even if it upset his ulcer. Someone had written — was writing — a very thorough and very exacting report on him as if he were some grand criminal! He had a right to that file, he decided, and would seize it at the soonest opportunity. The clerk found he did not have to wait long, for he had performed well on the Héche account, so well his superior had placed him on more such assignments. He worked resolutely at the accounts, eager to be done with each and reach the day he would be called again to go to the mysterious second level. He was soon given the Gerrine account, involving a family spanning five generations of scandal, and he was dispatched to the basement to pull the folder on Dalrimkat Gerrine VI, eldest of twelve heirs to the Gerrine Adding-Machine Corporation fortune. In his office, Luka Maro locked his door and took a deep breath. He stropped his paper knife on his palm and spread his jacket out on his desk like a tanner preparing a pelt. Holding the knife to the jacket lining, he made a surgical incision ten inches long. The paperknife was returned to the desk’s topmost drawer and the clerk was out the door, jacket around his narrow shoulders. His heart fluttered during the elevator ride. The boy in the red uniform had evidently lost his fear of bank clerks and now appeared bored and listless, eyes wandering along the perimeter of the chamber. At the second level, Luka Maro thanked the boy and stepped into the low-ceilinged lobby. He walked with measured ease until he heard the elevator doors shut behind him, and he broke into a jog. The north hallway was empty and endless, the buzzing electric lights reflecting off every steel door. Insurance Claims XX40-XX41. Public Utilities, AAA-DEF. Small Loans, XX90-XX92. He threw open the door of the Prioritized E-through-I Alphabetical Filing Room,

lights flickering on automatically. Not tarrying a moment, he jerked open GEA-GHA and found Gerrine, Dalrimkat VI. He checked the first page — yes, this was the right woman; two abortions and a history of gambling. He closed the steel door as quietly as he could manage, mentally blessing whoever last oiled the hinges. Striding down the corridor, he marveled once again at the odd placards. Dental Records of Known Patriots. Discredited Egyptology. Untranslatable Manuscripts, Ideographic. He found the unmarked room unlocked, as he suspected every room was. Perhaps he would come down again some day and investigate the other odd rooms, but most likely not. Luka Maro checked that no one was watching, and slipped into the filing room, pulling the door shut behind him. He set the Gerrine file on the floor and took off his jacket, holding it in one hand. With the other, he found the familiar Maro, Luka folder and slipped it into the pocket he had cut in the lining. It fit easily, he found, and when he re-donned the coat, it was as good as invisible. The hem fell as it should and did not sag awkwardly. He did not stop to look for his father’s file or his mother’s, or even the file of Roan Walram. He was sure they were there, and they were not his business. Luka Maro was in the elevator again before he knew it. He took a long, slow breath and tried to avoid looking at the boy. Though he was sure the file was well hidden, he stood with his back against the wall. When the elevator arrived at the second storey, he thanked the boy again and returned to his office, Gerrine, Dalrimkat VI in hand.

Luka Maro did not truly breathe until he had locked the door of his apartment behind him. He poured himself a glass of cold milk and retreated into his bedroom, throwing his smart leather briefcase to the side. Sitting against the headboard, milk in hand, nothing made any sense. The file was still in his jacket,

pressing into his spine. He set the glass on the nightstand and unbuttoned his coat. In its appearance, it was an exceptionally ordinary file. The folder could have come from any stationery store in the country, as could the paper within. The words could have been printed on any typewriter with any ink ribbon by any half-trained typist. He opened the folder and re-read the initial profile. His ears went pinkish at the sight of the word antisocial, but he felt more violated by the lengthy description of a visit he made to an analyst following his entrance into university. His paper trail was laid out before him. He took a deeper look at the lines of numbers. How regular a man he was! Of singular habits, of solid habits. How little changed! How rarely did he come across a receipt from a bar or an invoice from a department store! Was all of his existence confined to a cafeteria, a café, and a mail-order catalogue? Every telephone call he placed was transcribed before him, every letter sent, presented in mimeoform! How small a man he found himself! Luka Maro located a half-filled fountain pen and a sheet of lined paper. Bracing the paper against one of his thirty-three books, a forgotten volume of verse, he began to write a letter in comely, precise hand. The following day, Luka Maro, Clerk of the Seventh Degree, would return to his office on the second storey of the Central Bank. He would leave his briefcase on his desk and take the elevator to the second level of the basement. The ride would be silent. He would thank the boy. He would walk down the north hallway and enter the unmarked room, where he would reach into his jacket lining and draw forth the file on Maro, Luka. The file would be returned, set in line with its neighbors, all of its papers in order. The file would be exactly as it had been, save for the addition of a letter at the very end, handwritten on lined paper. It would read:

To whom it may concern: I have read your file concerning me, and I have some complaints. First: while I do not know how this record was assembled, I am quite sure I take issue with the transcriptions of my personal conversations and the copying of my letters. Second: there are several factual errors in this profile. It is true that I do not like geese, but not that I dislike children. I merely do not know what to do with them. Third: reading this file, I appear a miniscule, meager man. This is not a complete picture. I may be mild and meager, but I am not small. I am vast — I contain multitudes. You are watching me always and listening to me always, but now, from the vaults of the Central Bank and from the café at Argan Square and from this little beige room, I watch and listen in return. Sincerely, Citizen Luka Maro