The Prisoner • Escape Literature

When he finally does emerge, he goes to the Village Library. The place is cavernous, stuffed with books. Smells of mildew and neglect. One reader, who appears to be sleeping. The Librarian is sleeping too. No signs on the wall promising "Escape to a world of reading!" No hint of joy at all.

He studies the card catalog, walks the stacks. No Orwell, no Koestler, no Huxley, no Zamyatin. Apparently no books from the 20th-century at all, subversive or not. A scattering from the 19th century, with dirty words and calls for rebellion carefully blacked out. Some dangerous titles are missing entirely. No Tale of Two Cities. No Huckleberry Finn. (As he recalls, a tale about two boys who ran away from home due to a moral objection to slavery.) They may be careful. But They're not perfect. Miraculously, They somehow missed "The Man in the Iron Mask" and the "Count of Monte Cristo." So he keeps looking ...

Then he realizes a short-haired woman is looking at him. She stands, legs akimbo, hands on her hips. The woman is not in costume. But she instantly reminds him of Peter Pan. According to the badge on her tunic, she's the new Number Two.

"What are you looking for?"

"Escape literature."

"That's amusing, Number Six. You're quite the wit. Any story in particular?"

"I'll know it when I see it."

"Author's name? Title?"

"I don't recall."

"What happens in the story?"

"I wouldn't dream of giving it away."

"Where was it set?"

"Planet Earth, I think."

"You mean France, don't you? The author was French."

As she says this, her fingers grab the copy of The Count of Monte Cristo he was trying not to look at. She holds onto it.

"I think I know what you're looking for," she says.

"Really?"

"Really. It's a very famous story."

"You've read it?"

"I have."

"What happens then?"

"Well .... Sometime in the 18th century. France, of course. A man is being held prisoner in a dank cell. The gallows await him the next day. In desperation, he tunnels out, swims a moat, tunnels in again, climbs this, does this, does that, flees barking dogs and angry soldiers, hides, twists, turns, enters a dead-end passageway, then starts tunneling again. As he digs, he's thinking he's found freedom and — voila! — he's back in his jail cell. His sneering jailer appears and says, 'You did what we expected you to do. Now here is what you did not expect.' The jailer pushes the iron bars of the prisoner's cell open with one hand. 'You see, monsieur? Your cell was unlocked all the time! Hahaha! Now let us keep the appointment with the hangman!'" That's the story, isn't it?"

"It is."

"It's a lovely story. And I can see why you relate to it. You're very predictable."

"Am I?"

"Completely! It's the story of your life, Number Six. Or your death, depending on how you look at it. It's what's been happening to you. Eight escape attempts so far. Six engineered by us, two by you. But they all ended the same. You tunneled right back into your cell, didn't you?"

"Literary criticism is not your forte."

"Oh, but it is. And I can tell you how your story ends. We know all of your tricks, but you don't know ours. Most of the Villagers now hate you. You will find no allies. You will find no escape. Aside from death. Or sincere submission."

"Same thing, isn't it?"

"For you, I'm sure it is. Would you like to know the author's name? The story's title?"

"You know I would."

"Yes I do. See you at the Carnival. Perhaps I'll tell you."

She gives him that odious salute.

"Be seeing you."

And leaves him alone in a room full of dead stories he no longer feels like reading.