In detective books, we are often presented with a detective as the hero—Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, Inspector Maigret… Do you remember the names of all the villains they caught? Perhaps only Professor Moriarty. The others, hardly… It’s interesting why in reality everything happens the other way around. History remembers the names of psychopaths, rapists, and serial killers, but not those who stopped them.
That is precisely why the Senate passed a law historically known as “damnatio memoriae” (Latin for “condemnation of memory”), but which we simply call a procedure. After physical execution comes a second one—mental, informational execution. Along with the criminal, all traces of his presence in this world are destroyed. As if he never existed! This calms society, stops numerous imitators, and generally removes the ground from under the feet of those who seek fame like Herostratus. A triumph of Roman law.
As soon as just retribution has been carried out and the criminal has been burned on the electric chair, his mortal body, along with all his material possessions, is completely handed over to our service. And then we step in—the “magistrates of oblivion.” That is exactly how “magistratus oblivionis” is written on my badge…
I
The prison morgue. Everything begins here. I open the envelope and learn the name of my client, whom I will have to accompany. The pathologist makes final preparations, noting nothing in their logbook. Workers wrap the body in a standard bag and load it into the vehicle. I collect all documents and personal belongings of the client. From this moment on, he is sent into complete oblivion.
We drive through the night city. Rain drums against the roof and windows of the car. Silhouettes of buildings and glowing spots from streetlights and headlights blur in the water spreading across the windshield. The driver is calm. It seems like I know him, but I can’t recall his name. He’s driven me between the prison and the crematorium many times before. You can tell that his job has long since become routine—just like mine. Nowadays, hardly anyone would be surprised by this.
“Want a cigarette?” I ask the driver. He nods silently. I slightly lower the window so rain doesn’t flood the cabin, and light up. A harsh tobacco smoke fills my throat. The cigarettes are cheap and too strong, but at least they don’t cause unpleasant irritation somewhere just above my palate. It feels like I’m getting sick. I exhale smoke into the rain, watching the nocturnal landscape flash and swirl outside. Lost in thought, I drift off.
“We’re here,” the driver nudges me. I step out and hurry to escape the rain into the warmth of the black building, not waiting for the crematorium workers to remove the body. Inside, everything happens quickly. I’ve seen this procedure performed under different circumstances, so I know exactly how much the “magistrate of oblivion” badge speeds things up significantly. I burned my father. Even without considering the farewell ceremony with all the relatives, of whom there weren’t many in his case, there was still plenty of bureaucracy involved. Now I regularly burn people and can do it swiftly, without unnecessary paperwork.
The morgue worker swings open the furnace doors, where the body was sent some time ago, so I can confirm its complete combustion. Everyone present looks at me expectantly. I nod, and the ashes are unceremoniously swept into another standard plastic bag. Much less than the previous one. Without labels or markings.
II
Ironically, the body is the least significant thing a person leaves behind. Information is the most abundant product of human activity, which is why our service spends most of its resources erasing it. Even before the client’s body has begun to burn in the crematorium furnace, our IT specialists have already “burned” hundreds of mentions of him across hundreds of databases. Bank accounts, credit history, traffic fines, housing payments, online shopping histories, social media profiles… Everything bit by bit was disappearing into the digital fire. Simultaneously, various connections were being established, and the entire life story was reconstructed, from birth to the grave.
Even in our age of information technology, many organizations still duplicate records, and some even maintain them entirely on paper. Usually, I receive a list of such organizations where the client has appeared in one way or another. But more often than not, I already know this list beforehand. All materials must be seized, possible “tails” analyzed, and destroyed. Certificates, statements, registration forms, photographs… Everything goes into the fire. It’s important not to miss anything. We call this paperwork.
According to protocol, working with documents should take place in an office. But doing so sober-minded is difficult, so I break the rules. On the way back from the crematorium, I ask the driver to drop me off at the corner. He’s happy to finish his shift early and gladly does so. I step out of the car right into the rain, pull up my coat collar, and lower my hat. Today I’ll definitely get sick. A few hurried steps through puddles and I find myself at my favorite establishment with the unpretentious name “Mesto” (“Place”).
“Mesto” stays open late into the night, but it’s usually quiet here, and that’s what I love about it. Avoiding the bar, where nocturnal drinkers linger for long, tedious conversations about nothing, I place my order at the terminal. Two portions of cognac, three coffees with sugar, and salted nuts. Exactly enough for the rest of the night until closing time. I walk to the far corner of the hall, where a group of tables with soft armchairs is comfortably situated, and settle down there. It’s quiet here. Conversations taking place at the bar blend with the soft music and are barely audible. I wait until the waitress, giving me a tired glance, brings my order and leaves, then spread out the papers.
I must say, my client today was a first-rate bastard. Last year he entered a church right in the middle of Christmas mass and opened fire. First, he shot at the crowd of parishioners with an automatic shotgun, turning people into minced meat. Then, when his ammunition ran out, he dropped the weapon, grabbed two Berettas, and went outside to set up a shooting range for passersby. He stopped only when he emptied both pistols’ magazines. That’s how they caught him. He stood in the square in front of the church, looking up at the sky with his arms outstretched, like a crucified Jesus. Corpses lay all around him. The scumbag wanted fame, but we immediately shut down everything possible. Television crews showed only the building from the back side. The criminal’s name didn’t leak into the press either. He hoped for a public trial, but he didn’t even get that. No journalists, no jury, no pompous reading of manifestos from the defendant’s bench. He received not a single minute of fame except the one spent on the electric chair. And now I’m going to turn his entire life into nothingness. He won’t leave any trace in the history of mankind.
Damn, how I hate digging through this crap. Sometimes I feel the stench of rotten human souls emanating from the pages. And then I drink cognac and strong, fragrant coffee. That helps. I go through page after page, making small notes in my notebook. Tomorrow I’ll need to stop by several places to collect the remaining papers.
III
— The doctor is waiting for you in his office, — the nurse at the reception smiles at me. A truly Russian beauty with beautiful straw-colored hair and curvaceous forms under a white coat. Looking at her plump lips, one involuntarily wonders how well she performs oral sex. But I don’t like to be distracted from work. I walk toward the chief physician’s office along the gleaming floor between floor vases with some kind of plants, bump into a white door with a gold plaque, and, without knocking, enter the room.
The doctor sits behind his desk in a large leather chair. I settle down opposite him on a visitor’s chair. I don’t need to introduce myself; we know each other well, and we don’t like each other. I stare expectantly into the chief physician’s eyes, and he decides to break the silence first.
— Your organization’s request arrived yesterday. All the documents were prepared. Here they are, — he opens a drawer and lays out a thick stack of papers in cardboard folders in front of me.
— Good, — I reply, visually assessing the volume of documents, and automatically reach for cigarettes.
— Smoking is not allowed here, — the doctor stops me.
— Sorry, — I put the cigarettes away, — But besides this, I’m interested in… In short, is there anything not reflected in the documents?
— We keep our records very carefully. Everything is reflected here, — the doctor answers with undisguised irritation, — If you’re interested in my professional opinion, I’ll give it: he was a very sick and unhappy man. He needed treatment, not execution.
— I’m not conducting a post-mortem investigation to review the court’s decision, doctor. That’s not my business. I just need information to do my job.
— Your job…— the doctor spits through clenched teeth, — Everything you need for your job is in these folders. If you have doubts about their completeness, you can send your own archival service.
— I don’t see any need for that, — I calmly reply, — I just want to remind you about the confidentiality agreement…
— We call it medical confidentiality. I’ve signed your papers as well.
— Very well. Thank you for your cooperation.
I gather the documents and leave the office. I often encounter idealists like this doctor who don’t understand our work or even consider it harmful. That’s their right. Explaining anything to such people is absolutely useless. However, both I and all my colleagues work to create a new, brighter, and cleaner world. The battle for the future is fought in the past.
IV
Book Club. It turns out the bastard loved reading. At least, he had a membership card in his wallet. What was he reading there? Hitler’s “Mein Kampf” or some other crap? I’ll soon find out. In any case, I need to visit this library. I wonder if they serve drinks there? At least coffee.
It gets dark early. The city sinks into twilight like black sticky resin that can’t be washed off. Luckily, it’s not raining today, but the cold wind still chills me to the bone. I approach the glass doors through which warm yellow light streams and step inside. The hall, covered with carpets and framed by potted palm-like plants, opens into a room filled with bookshelves. Books in the middle, books on the edges, on the right and left, along the walls. I involuntarily look up at the ceiling, but only old-fashioned crystal chandeliers hang there.
I casually toss my hat onto a horned coat rack standing alone in the corner. It seems to have huddled into its corner, hiding from all the shelves and spines surrounding it. Feeling enveloping warmth around me, I open my coat and walk along a row of shelves. Waiting for someone, I examine the covers of neatly classified, organized, and categorized books. “Classical Literature,” “Russian Prose,” “Dostoevsky,” “Crime and Punishment.” I take a book from the shelf and absentmindedly flip through its pages. A story about a tormented and repentant murderer who tried but failed to justify himself. Naive. And so unlike my own story.
“Hello,” I hear a pleasant female voice behind me, “Are you a member of the Magistracy of Oblivion?”
“I don’t recall showing my badge…” I turn around. Standing before me is a slender brunette wearing thick-rimmed glasses. She’s dressed in a tight-fitting black dress with a white knitted shawl draped over her shoulders like a stole. The girl clearly wanted to look like a vampire woman, but inevitably remains a textbook bookworm, lonely enough to keep a cat.
“You don’t get many visitors here on weekdays, as you might expect. And you obviously came here for work. You were just waiting for someone to show up. And then, such a choice of books…”
“Speaking of work,” I interrupt her, showing the girl a note with a written surname, “Do you remember this person?”
“Um… Yes,” the girl smiles awkwardly under her glasses, “Vaguely… Almost forgot.”
“Good,” I smile back, realizing she’s flirting with me. Apparently, the young lady has become completely wild among her books, ready to throw herself at the first passerby.
“We have something like a small home café for visitors here. Maybe we could have a cup of coffee and discuss what interests you?”
“I wouldn’t refuse,” I confidently reply, following the girl and watching how she deliberately sways her hips, probably hoping for a continuation of the evening. After a couple of minutes, we’re already sitting opposite each other at a small round table under a burgundy fringed lampshade. The entire café consists of four identical tables with matching lampshades, occupying a space that somehow isn’t occupied by bookshelves.
“Can you smoke here?” I politely ask.
“You… can,” the brunette answers suggestively, pausing meaningfully. I slowly light a cigarette, take a sip of coffee, and stare directly into her eyes.
“I don’t know what to tell you… I really don’t remember this visitor very well. He was here only once, even got a club card, took just one book from us.”
“What kind?”
“One moment,” the girl gets up and walks along the shelves, giving me another opportunity to appreciate the beauty of her figure. Soon she returns with a worn-out volume in a light brown cover.
“This one,” she puts the book on the table and sits down again, carefully and almost studiously observing my actions.
— “The History of Ancient Greece.” Interesting,” I turn the book over in my hands for a second, then open it and, seeing the library card inserted with the client’s name, practically automatically pull it out and put it in my pocket. Then I continue flipping through the volume leisurely. It would be unpleasant if he left some mark or message about himself on the pages that I might miss. Understanding my interest in her own way, the brunette decides to continue the conversation.
“You didn’t think you liked books. Your… organization… It reminds me of those guys in Bradbury’s ‘Fahrenheit 451’.”
“That’s a mistake,” I reply, not taking my eyes off the pages, “We have plenty of differences with them… Let’s start with the fact that we burn books together with people.”
The brunette giggles nervously. It seems my ostentatious cynicism has nicely complemented the image she had already created for herself.
“And yet… What’s the point? What’s the value of oblivion?”
“It seems you haven’t discussed the law on ‘the curse of memory’ with your senator.”
“I’m far removed from politics altogether.”
My gaze stops on the folded pages. Apparently, they were read with the greatest interest. I raise my eyes to the brunette and, leaning back comfortably against the chair, take a sip of coffee.
“Do you remember the story of Herostratus?”
“Of course. He burned the famous Temple of Artemis in Ephesus.”
“He explained the purpose of his act as a desire to remain immortal. And since then, we regularly have ‘Herostratuses’ of all kinds. Now their interests are no longer limited to buildings. They rape and kill women and children for years, leaving various symbols and signs on their bodies. They blow themselves up in crowded airport halls and subway cars. They cover themselves with cameras and broadcast online how they commit mass shootings of unarmed people… And when we catch one, his destructive idea may already infect a dozen more ‘Herostratuses.’ Or worse… This is a virus. A virus of vanity. That’s what we fight. Herostratus managed to stay in human memory. But no one else will succeed,” I pause and look again at the brunette, who stares at me without blinking, “You asked: ‘What’s the value of oblivion?’ Oblivion protects and brings peace. There was too much evil in the world to remember it… I seem to have left my hat there?”
“You’re already leaving?”
“Yes,” I hand the book to the brunette, “Thank you for your cooperation.”
“But…” she takes the volume from my hands hesitantly and follows me, “Maybe you’ll come again sometime?”
“Perhaps. Next month.”
“That’s… good,” she hesitates slightly, watching me put on my hat, carefully wrap my scarf around my neck, and fasten my coat, “Excuse me… What’s your name?”
“No name.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. The procedure of ‘damnatio memoriae’ is applied to all magistrates of oblivion during their lifetime. We don’t have names.”
“Just like in Men in Black?”
In response, I smile silently and step outside. Wet snow falls from the sky in frequent large flakes. For a second, they flash in the dense beams of streetlights and disappear into the darkness, only to stick to my face and clothes a second later. “Yes, just like in fucking Men in Black,” I think and light a cigarette. How many times have I heard this idiotic question… It’s a pity I have a lighter in my pocket instead of an eraser for wiping memories.
V
The furnace. It’s located in the basement of our office building. Long ago, it was a coal-fired boiler room that provided heat to all floors. Now we use it for our own purposes. “We have something like a small home crematorium here for clients,” I joke, suddenly remembering yesterday’s conversation at the book club, and involuntarily smile myself.
I’m sitting on an old chair with metal legs across from the open damper, behind which an orange flame is raging. It feels like staring directly into Hell. One by one, I throw papers into the fire: statements, bills, medical records, individual documents, or simple notes. Everything goes into the furnace.
This time, I’m following protocol, though it’s more like a ritual. First, all the collected papers go into the fire. Then… I take out of my coat pocket a small packet without labels or markings. Next— the client himself. Could it really have been lying in my coat pocket all this time? I disgustingly toss it into the furnace. And finally, last of all, the client’s card with his name goes into the fire. The very same piece of paper I pull out of the envelope every time I start a new case.
The phone rings. I get up from the chair and, still holding the card in my hand, walk toward the desk in the opposite corner of the room. My footsteps echo loudly in the empty basement space. I pick up the receiver.
“Yes?”
On the other end of the line is the recognizable, slightly stammering voice of our archivist. This computer geek doesn’t particularly like me and seems to be a little afraid of me.
“I couldn’t reach you on your cell phone. I figured you’d be down here.”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Listen… A new detail has come to light regarding your current case,” he pauses.
“Well, tell me!” I urge him.
“It turns out your client has a family. An ex-wife and a child.”
“A family? How is that possible? He only had parents. And they’ve been dead for a long time…”
“The marriage wasn’t officially registered. The child is listed under the mother’s surname. In most databases, the father isn’t listed. I… I just missed it…”
“You missed it?! Do you even realize what might remain with the ex-wife?! Photos, diaries, hell, everything she had… And I’ll have to clean up after you! Are you an idiot?”
“Well, okay, okay! I made a mistake…”
“You’re an idiot?”
“What? Is it impossible to make a mistake?”
“You’re an idiot,” I angrily slam down the receiver. In my hand, I still hold the slip of paper with the name. I stare at it silently. It seems this guy isn’t ready to let me go yet.
VI
A small, pretty house in the suburbs. The walls have recently been painted a light green color—I don’t know how this shade is properly called… Lime? Neatly trimmed bushes grow all around. The lawn is also well-maintained. Clearly, a man’s hand has taken care of the house. I step onto the porch and ring the doorbell. After waiting a moment, a woman opens the door. She looks about 40-45 years old, with light hair curled into small ringlets. She wears an apron stained with grease over a floral-patterned house dress. She could easily pass for a classic housewife from the 1950s if not for the grease stains. I immediately show my badge.
“Magistracy of Oblivion. May I come in?”
“Oh… Of course,” she mumbles, looking confused, and lets me inside. We enter the kitchen. Food items are laid out on the table, an empty pot sits on the stove, and a cutting board and knife are prepared… It seems I’ve interrupted her preparing dinner.
“I’m interested in your husband.”
“He… He’s at work right now.”
“This one!” I sharply hold up a piece of paper, practically thrusting it right under her nose. Instantly, judging by her expression, I understand that the woman clearly remembers my client.
“We broke up… Five years ago.”
“Mom, who’s that?” A boy, about nine years old, pauses in the doorway to the kitchen.
“A child from him?” I nod toward the boy.
“Yes,” she replies.
“Who is it, Mom?” the boy repeats his question.
“He’s from the police. He’s just going to ask us a few questions.”
“Yes,” I turn to the boy, “You live with your dad, right? Is he at work now?”
“Yes… But he’s not my real dad. He lived with us before, then he left.”
“Really? Do you remember what his name was? Your real dad?”
The boy answers confidently. He remembers him well. Children have such a sharp memory for certain things—better than any document. He looks at me with his direct, open gaze. You can’t negotiate with someone like that. You can’t demand a confidentiality agreement from children. You can’t intimidate them. Memories of their parents live in their genes…
I shift my gaze from the boy to his mother. Who goes first? What would be morally correct? The woman, seemingly instinctively reading my thoughts, makes a sudden movement. This determines my choice. A muffled gunshot rings out. The bullet hits her squarely in the heart. I quickly turn around and fire a second bullet into the boy’s heart. He doesn’t even have time to scream.
For a couple of seconds, I stand there, staring at the gun in my hand. A faint plume of smoke rises from the barrel with some kind of deadly serenity. Almost like smoke from a half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray. These moments stretch on interminably. I need to calm my nerves.
I step over the woman’s body and, approaching the stove, open the gas valve. Gas begins to leak out with a hissing sound, filling the kitchen. I pick up the spent cartridges, trying not to look at the bodies. Lead expanding bullets without jackets melt well but leave very unpleasant wounds.
I walk into the hallway, lined with cheap synthetic wallpaper and plastic panels. This will burn well. Soon, there will be true Hell here. On the coat rack hangs a small boy’s jacket. I tuck the slip of paper with the name inside its sleeve and, clicking a lighter, watch for a few seconds as the paper and fabric ignite, then quickly leave the house.
I hear the explosion from across the block. A fiery blaze illuminates the darkening evening sky. I light a cigarette, pondering whether to call the fire department, but decide not to waste my time on it. After all, the case is closed, and I’ve earned a little rest. Evening has only just begun, and I could sit down at “Mesto”… Or better yet, visit that unfulfilled brunette. She clearly has feelings for me. Perhaps reread “Fahrenheit 451” aloud. Why not? It’s a good book. I love Bradbury. Well, I can’t read “Mother Goose’s Fairy Tales,” can I?
