The Manual of Certainty

In a certain town, the bus service achieved one hundred per cent punctuality. The announcement was made at the depot, between two buses. Both were clean, fuelled and exceptionally well suited to public appearances. Not a single late arrival had been recorded during the last quarter. No on-time arrivals had been recorded either, but that was not the subject of the press conference.

The chief executive displayed a green chart. He waited for the photographers to finish, then explained that service quality was now visible at a glance. A local radio reporter asked where passengers could see it.

“On our website,” he said.
“What about at the bus stop?”
“We’re working on QR codes.”

Stefan, a driver, had nothing against charts. He would have been happy to look at them after work. For three months, however, he had come to the depot exclusively for training: first in saving fuel, then in reducing wear, finally in preventing complaints. Every target had been met. The bus beside the wall used no fuel, suffered no wear and admitted no dissatisfied customers.

On Wednesday, Stefan checked the engine, brakes and heating. Everything worked. Permission to leave was harder to get started. The dispatcher asked for a business case.

“People are standing at the stop.”
“How do you know they want to travel?”
“They’re beside the timetable.”
“They might be reading it.”

Stefan went to ask. He found a woman with a bag, a man with a book and a man with no identifying prop at all, because he simply wanted to go home. All three confirmed their intention to travel. The woman added her work address. She did not want her presence to be mistaken again for an interest in transport history.

The dispatcher examined the signatures. Could they be collected electronically? Stefan said the passengers were waiting. She suggested collecting them again at a convenient time. He realised that continuing the conversation would amount to another training course.

He drove out. At the first stop the woman boarded cautiously, as if entering a building newly reopened after repairs. She asked whether the bus really went into town. Stefan said it did. The man with the book sat by the window and intended to do nothing that required an efficiency assessment.

They picked up several more people. One searched for a ticket; another asked whether this was a normal service. Stefan waited for a passenger running towards the stop. He reached the terminus eight minutes late. The woman got off near her workplace. The reader went to the library. The third passenger reached home. These outcomes were hard to fit on a single chart, since they all ended in different places.

That afternoon Stefan was summoned to a meeting. The quality director printed a table and laid it in the middle of the desk.

“We have our first late arrival.”
“We have our first arrival,” Stefan said.
“Please don’t confuse the issue.”

The cause of the delay was quickly established: the vehicle had stopped at bus stops. The director asked who had authorised this route. The dispatcher pointed to the timetable. The timetable could not be summoned to a meeting, so a working group took responsibility for it.

The chief executive did not want to punish Stefan. He valued initiative when it could be separated from its consequences. After an hour, the journey was reclassified as a demonstration of passenger-carrying capability. Demonstrations were excluded from the statistics. The green chart became solid green again.

Stefan received a certificate and an invitation to the quarterly awards ceremony. He was also asked to make another journey the following day: bringing the guests from their hotel to the depot. The list included the chief executive, the quality director and the author of the complaint-prevention programme.

“Another demonstration?” he asked.
“No. Transport for delegates. Please be punctual.”

The next morning the bus drew up outside the hotel. The quality director appeared eight minutes late. Stefan waited until he saw him before closing the doors.

“Thank you for waiting,” the director said as he sat down.

At the depot, awards were presented for punctuality. Stefan stayed in the bus. He was waiting for the committee to come back.

Roman never began a sentence with “I think”. That would be unfair to the other person: why make somebody guess when you could tell them exactly how things stood? For the same reason, he never asked whether anyone wanted his opinion. Once he had formed it, keeping it to himself would be inconsiderate.

On Monday morning he told his wife that he would not need an umbrella. There were clouds outside, but Roman knew the difference between clouds and rain. He returned soaked. His wife handed him a towel.

“I told you to take an umbrella.”
“You said it might rain. It might also not rain.”
“But it did.”
“We’re discussing what you said this morning.”

He hung his coat over the bath. The drops fell in an even rhythm. This was the only participant in the conversation whom Roman did not interrupt.

At the office he worked in accounts, though he devoted most of his time to correcting other people’s statements. A colleague said she had been waiting a week for an email reply. Roman explained that it had been six days since she sent it. She thanked him for the precision and went into another room. He considered the matter settled.

By the coffee machine a colleague described his building work. The contractors had promised to finish on Friday; on Monday they were not answering the phone. Roman immediately observed that no particular Friday had been specified.

“Do you still have your plumber’s number?” the colleague asked.
“First we need to establish whether a deadline has actually been missed.”

The colleague left without coffee. Roman stayed to explain the difference between a promise and a commitment to everyone else in the kitchen. Everyone else in the kitchen now consisted of the coffee machine. It raised no objections.

At lunchtime his daughter called. She was an adult, with a job and a flat of her own, but sometimes she still said “Dad” in a tone that asked him to stop being an expert for a moment. Another company had invited her for an interview. She was excited and frightened.

Roman listed seven risks. At the third she tried to add something, so he asked her to let him finish. By the sixth she had stopped trying. The seventh concerned people who made decisions based on emotions.

“I just wanted you to keep your fingers crossed.”
“That doesn’t improve your chances.”
“I know, Dad.”

She ended the call. Roman noted privately that he had managed to explain something after all.

That evening he went to a friend’s birthday party. The invitation said: “Come around seven. Cake later.” Roman arrived at six fifty-nine. His friend opened the door wearing an apron, with flour on one hand.

“You’re early.”
“I’m here around seven.”
“Well, come in and hold this bowl.”
“So you’re not ready.”

His friend handed him the bowl without answering. In the kitchen somebody was whipping cream, somebody was telling a story with no discernible beginning, and somebody had confused the birthday host with his brother. Roman began putting things right. The bowl went back on the counter. The guests moved to the sitting room, where the inaccurate story acquired an ending and made everyone laugh.

For a moment he stood in the doorway. He could have gone in and said the cake looked good. Instead, he pointed out that the candles did not correspond to his friend’s age. There were two missing, he learned. He proposed using one three times. Nobody had matches handy. The cake was eaten without resolving the matter.

At home his wife asked how it had gone.

“As usual. Nobody listened.”

She did not argue. This concerned him, so he supplied three examples. His wife put the plates in the dishwasher. Roman explained that not all of them could be arranged that way. She moved two, shut the door and went to read.

He stayed at the table and checked his phone. His daughter had written: “Interview went brilliantly.” He typed: “At this stage you only have your own impression.” Beside the message was her picture: she and a friend were both giving a thumbs-up. He deleted his reply. He wrote “Congratulations” and looked at the word for a long time. It required neither a qualification nor a follow-up.

He sent it. His daughter replied with a heart.

Roman got up and looked into his wife’s room.

“You know, I think I didn’t have the last word once today.”

She looked up from her book.

“I know.”

He waited a moment. Then he sat down. Victory stayed out in the hall.

Tomas could not stand tourists. They got in the way on holiday, especially when they photographed the same things he did. Last year he had to crop six people out of a view of a bay. After the cropping, half the bay remained. He captioned it “Extraordinary tranquillity” and decided never to return.

This time he found an agency promising to go where agencies never went. The offer contained no address. An address would give the place away. There was, however, a phone number, a price list and three levels of authenticity. He chose the middle one. The most expensive included no contact with a guide, which he could not distinguish from not paying anybody.

The guide waited outside the station. His name was Mark, he wore an ordinary jacket and he held no sign. Tomas took this as a good omen. A woman with a suitcase approached.

“The off-the-beaten-track tour?” she asked.

Tomas looked at Mark. The guide explained that they would be visiting individually, but together. It was easier to avoid groups that way.

They turned into a side street. They passed a bakery, a hardware shop and a tailor. Tomas asked to slow down. He wanted a photograph of a man carrying a ladder. The man put the ladder against a wall and went indoors. Tomas waited. Mark said he might not come out before evening.

“What’s he doing in there?”
“I don’t know. He’s at home.”

They entered a small café. There were two empty tables and a man reading a newspaper. Tomas asked whether locals came here. The owner said sometimes, if they wanted coffee. The custom was not especially picturesque, but Tomas ordered an espresso. He wanted to drink it the way people did here.

“Sitting down,” said the owner.

At the next table the woman with the suitcase was photographing her cup. Tomas waited for her to finish. He did not want somebody taking photographs in his photograph. The owner asked him to move his bag off a chair; her brother was due shortly. Mark smiled at Tomas. Contact with residents had been promised in the itinerary.

The brother arrived and asked for the cellar keys. He received them, took a sip of water and left. Tomas felt he had missed something. He had not even had time to ask how many generations the family had lived in the neighbourhood.

Behind the café they reached a courtyard. Washing hung on a line. Tomas put his phone away: this time he wanted to be present rather than merely to document things. Seven seconds later he took it out again. The distinction also needed documenting.

A woman leaned out of a window and called to Mark. He had forgotten to buy potatoes. The guide checked his watch. This was awkward: shopping was not on the itinerary, and his mother was now specifying the weight.

“Do you live here?” Tomas asked.
“Since I was a child.”
“Could we come with you?”

Mark agreed, provided they did not mind the shop. The woman with the suitcase stayed in the courtyard. Tomas went along. He stood in the queue, passed Mark a bag and held the door. Nobody looked at him. For the first time that day he felt he really was not a tourist.

On the way back Mark’s phone rang. His mother reminded him to collect the sheets from the laundry as well. Tomas immediately volunteered to help. He was given a white parcel. He carried it carefully; for a moment Mark looked like the guide to a man who had spent his whole life carrying sheets.

Back in the courtyard the woman with the suitcase asked Tomas to take her picture beside the washing line. He suggested that she help with the shopping first. It was the only way to get to know a place properly, he explained. She declined. Her package included a visit, not employment.

Mark’s mother came down to collect the bags. Tomas asked whether they could return tomorrow. He liked how unpretentious the place was. He did not even want to know what would happen: he was ready for a surprise.

“The bins need taking out tomorrow,” she said.

Mark began to apologise. Tomas stopped him with a raised hand.

“What time?”

They stepped away to agree a price. His mother stayed by the gate. She called after them not to get carried away. There were only two bags.