He counts his steps

How the straight line bends until it breaks the world

The ledger sits open on the desk, its pages thick with columns of figures that have been balanced, re-balanced, and balanced again until the ink has worn thin in the creases. The man who keeps the ledger does not look at the totals. He looks at the alignment. The numbers must sit in their rows with the same precision as the bricks in the wall outside the window. If the bricks are crooked, the wall falls. If the numbers are crooked, the account is wrong. He believes this with the quiet, unshakeable certainty of a man who has spent twenty years ensuring that every decimal point is exactly where it should be. He is not thinking about the people who will receive the funds. He is thinking about the geometry of the page.

There is a corridor in the ministry that has no windows. It is long and narrow, painted a colour that is neither white nor grey but something in between, a colour that suggests neutrality without committing to it. The floor is linoleum, scuffed at the edges by the shoes of clerks who walk to and from the archives. The air smells of dust and old paper. When the man walks down this corridor, he does not look at the walls. He looks at the floor. He counts his steps. One, two, three, four. The rhythm is soothing. It imposes order on the space. He is going to the office of the Director, who has asked him to review a file. The file is not large. It is a single folder, thin and unassuming. The man carries it under his arm, holding it close to his body as if it were a child. He tells himself that he is carrying it for safekeeping. He tells himself that the Director will appreciate his diligence. He does not ask what is in the folder. To ask would be to suggest that there might be something wrong with the procedure. The procedure is not wrong. The procedure is perfect.

The Director sits behind a desk that is too large for the room. He is a kind man. He smiles when the man enters. He invites him to sit. He offers him a cup of tea. The tea is hot and bitter. The man drinks it because it is rude not to. The Director explains the situation. There is a discrepancy in the records. A small discrepancy. It has been there for some time. It is not the man’s fault. It is not anyone’s fault. It is simply a matter of alignment. The Director asks the man to look at the file. The man opens the folder. Inside is a list of names. The names are familiar. They are the names of people he has met, people he has spoken to, people who have trusted him with their information. He looks at the first name. He looks at the second. He looks at the third. The names are arranged in alphabetical order. The order is correct. The names are correct. The only thing that is incorrect is the fact that they are on the list.

He feels a slight discomfort in his chest. It is not pain. It is a sensation of pressure, like the feeling of a tight collar. He adjusts his tie. He tells himself that the discomfort is temporary. It will pass once he has completed the task. The task is simple. He must verify the entries. He must check the dates. He must ensure that the signatures are genuine. He picks up his pen. The pen is heavy. It feels solid in his hand. He begins to write. He writes the word “Verified” next to the first name. He writes it clearly. He writes it with care. He writes the word “Verified” next to the second name. He writes it with the same care. He writes the word “Verified” next to the third name. He does not look at the names again. He looks at the word. The word is perfect. It sits on the page with the same precision as the bricks in the wall.

The Director nods. He says that the work is good. He says that the man is reliable. He says that the ministry depends on men like him. The man feels a warmth spread through his chest. It is a pleasant feeling. It is the feeling of being needed. It is the feeling of being part of something larger than himself. He stands up. He thanks the Director for the tea. He walks back down the corridor. He returns to his desk. He opens the ledger. He looks at the columns. They are balanced. They are perfect. He closes the ledger. He goes home. He eats dinner. He sleeps. He dreams of walls.