The Case of Miss A.'s Missing Switchboard Operator

A strange and skittish young woman came into my office the other day.   She refused to give me her name, except to say that I may call her Miss A.  It seemed bizarre, if you ask me, to just give me one initial but I did not question it.  She assured that she will pay for my services in cash, which was fine for me.  No paper trail, no tax claims – everyone’s happy. 

“The machinery has not been working for quite some time now,” she said before I even had a chance to offer her to sit down. 

“The machinery?” I said.

“Yes.  You see, in order for the machinery to work properly, you have to have a switchboard operator, and I’ve had one for years now.  But something happened; the operator has abandoned me, I can’t find him.  I still believe that he is hiding somewhere within the machinery but at this point, I really can’t be sure.”

“This machinery you speak of – what is it made of?”

“Well, I thought that was obvious – gears of course!  All kinds of gears, and I have to tell you, things have been moving and grinding in the wrong direction for quite some time now.  They are not getting the right message.  The switchboard operator’s duty was, as you might imagine, to relay messages from one part of the machinery to the next, and through the “optikon” as a final destination,” she said almost in one breath.

“And this has not been happening?” I said what seemed to be a rather slow pace.

“Well, of course not!”

She was getting impatient and irritable.  I wasn’t sure if she was irritated by my linguistic slowness or her already bad predicament.  Either way, she probed me with her big eyes, her face showing no emotive power and at the same time a hint of colossal anger.  I had to figure out a way to keep her in the office, so that I might be able to get a better hold on her problem, and obviously, to insure a payment. 

“When was the last time you saw your switchboard operator?”

“A month ago.”

“And you waited this long to take action?”  I knew I should have been kinder and should not have used such words of quick judgment.  She was already very sensitive and any sudden movement would undoubtedly frighten her.  Surprisingly, though, she remained calm in this instance.

“Sometimes, he comes and goes, you see, and I thought that is what happened.  I thought he’ll be back within a few days but it’s been a month now, and nothing.  And I am worried.”

“Worried?  About what will happen to the operator?”  I said, expressing further confusion.  What a stupid series of questions, I thought to myself!  By this point, this woman will lose any confidence (if she even had any to begin with) in me as a detective, and she will leave the office, never to be seen. 

“Well, yes. But more importantly, I am worried what will happen to me!  If they get a hold of him, I can’t even imagine what will happen to me.  So, you have to help me.  I have nowhere else to turn,” she said.

I wasn’t sure this was the case – a woman with such a problem would have plenty of places to turn, and what made her come into my office was beyond me.  But my curiosity won over my general self-loathing and so I kept going with this, what seemed to me, more of a game that a proper case.

“They?  Who are they?”

Miss A. got distracted by the noise coming from the outside.  The office was on the first floor and the window was open.  Maybe she was paranoid, I don’t know, but she got up quickly, and said that she will contact me with further instructions.  She gave me that big eyed glare, only this time with a hint of plea and a soft smile, and said: “Please tell me that you will help me.”

“But Miss, I don’t even know your name.  How can I possibly help you?  And this machinery – it sounds like a bunch of nonsense if you ask me.  I think you’re pulling some kind of prank.  Did John send you?”

“John?  What John?  Look, I don’t who John is.  I’m telling you, I need help in finding my switchboard operator, and I need to know whether you will take the case or not.”

“Ok.  Fine,”  I heard myself say it. 

“I will be in touch,” she said and left, forgetting to close the door on the way out.

■■■

I remained seated in the chair, wondering what just happened.  I was new at this, and I have never heard of such a request.  I had reluctantly and fearfully accepted this job of a private detective because the agency was left to me by a man who owned it – Francis Macomber.  Frank was, to put it simply, a jerk.  I was an assistant in his office, doing everything and nothing.  My role was never assigned, never defined, and so the job was many different things.  I really hated him, and I hated myself for even having feelings of hatred. 

One day, I was coming back to the office from an assignment – some jealous girlfriend was convinced her boyfriend was cheating on her, but it turns out he was just working a second job – and, not to my surprise, the light in the office was on.  The radio was on, with some weird static – a mixture of Rush Limbaugh and A-ha’s “Take on me.”  I didn’t know if it was real or whether I was imagining it because I was prone to hallucinating.

“Frank?”

Nobody answered.  I opened the office door and there he was, on the desk.  His head and upper body anyway.  I didn’t move.  I just observed his limp body for a good forty seconds.  At forty-one, it occurred to me that I should check his pulse.  He was dead.  It turned out that it wasn’t foul play, nothing ominous or weird, just a plain old heart attack.  I didn’t know whether I should be happy or sad.  Despite the fact that I hated working for him, he was still my salary.  Now that he was dead, I became unemployed again, and quite depressed at the prospect at looking for another job.

After all the paperwork was completed, I found out that the bastard actually left me the detective agency.  This was not an act of generosity.  I also received his debts – late rent payments.  But what was I to do?  I took up the task.  And so, here I am, barely knowing what exactly am I doing here, in this detective agency, with a new case that looked and sounded more like one of my hallucinations rather than a real problem.

But I couldn’t help it either.  Curiosity keeps winning.  Miss A’s request, however weird and un-worldly it seemed, and her silent obsession for control was far more powerful than any possibility of giving up.

A Lazy Summer Afternoon in Sarajevo

O Memory, damn you!  Sometimes I wish I was incapable of remembering anything at all.  Would that be such a terrible existence, I ask you?  I could walk the streets unencumbered by war and death.  I hate death.  How I hate that evil presence!  It taunts me every day.

Maybe if I could selectively remember life would be easier.  I know people who are very good at that. But then again, I could imagine that selective memory results in selective vocabulary too.  These types usually only say "thank you," "good day," "pass the gravy," and "isn't the weather marvelous?"  I realize that I've made them sound like a bunch of English aristocrats straight out of Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited - but wait, don't they have trouble with memories too?

Since I am not English, Roman-Catholic, aristocrat fictional character, I don't think that this selective memory approach will really work.  It just does not sound like a viable option.  There is always opting out of life completely, but no, s-u-i-c-i-d-e just isn't for me.  It's too messy and I like myself too much and there is also that whole "death thing" which just sends creepy crawlies up my spine and I have already established that death and I are not good companions.

The worst is when summer begins to arrive.  Nature wakes up and so do your senses.  And the senses begin to give you a large dose of truth and fiction.  Did I really remember that?  Or am I dreaming, sleepwalking and making stuff up as I move my feet on the pavement?  Ah - pavement -

- pavement - concrete jungle - heat - summer in Sarajevo - prewar - mid-day worst sun - empty neighborhood streets, no one in sight, except a grocery store owner peering through the door, thinking it might be good to get some business, it's been a slow day, but even he is far too hot to care about making money.  I am 9 years old.  I sneak out of the apartment and venture into park without telling my parents. I didn't drink any water and I will surely faint.

In the park I see a swing - not any swing, my favorite one, and it's empty now.  Nobody is foolish enough to go out in this oppressive heat.  The soil under it is dug out from forceful, dangling feet which kick it every time - back and forth, back and forth.  I go up and down, into the air, into the earth, repeat, obsessively, go higher, condominiums appear and disappear from my view.  I am getting dizzy: "you must stop," I tell myself, an interior parental voice of moderation, but my being is not listening.  "You must stop or else you'll die!"

I stop and ponder death and I experience a deep hatred for it.  I am sweating.  It's time to get back home.  I pass the grocery store owner who does not have a choice but to relax, he reads the newspaper.  He nods in recognition: "How's your father?"  "Good, good," words barely come out of my mouth.  My mouth desperately needs liquids.  I am an anxious girl and don't want to spend time talking to the store owner and my thoughts are moving rapidly in anticipation on my and someone else's utterance.  I want to get out of here.  I quickly point to an orange popsicle and leave the exact change on the ice cream freezer.

By the time I get home, the melted juice of the popsicle runs through my fingers - drip, drip, drip - turning into orange stickiness on my hand and elbow.  I need water to wash myself.  I go back home, entering into the condo building, being greeted and welcomed by the cold air.  I touch the walls and such pleasure it brings but I am still foggy from my swinging adventure that I barely make it into the apartment.  How much time has passed?  I don't know.  I sneak in.  My parents did not notice, or it is more likely that they pretended to not notice.  My mother is still doing the dishes in the kitchen, my father is at the dining room table doing crossword puzzle.

It is a lazy summer afternoon in Sarajevo - before the war.