In the Country of Last Things

by Paul Auster

  You see what you are up against here. It’s not just that things vanish—but once they vanish, the memory of them vanishes as well. Dark areas form in the brain, and unless you make a constant effort to summon up the things that are gone, they will quickly be lost to you forever. I am no more immune to this disease than anyone else, and no doubt there are many such blanks inside me. A thing vanishes, and if you wait too long before thinking about it, no amount of struggle can ever wrench it back. Memory is not an act of will, after all. It is something that happens in spite of oneself, and when too much is changing all the time, the brain is bound to falter, things are bound to slip through it. Sometimes, when I find myself groping for a thought that has eluded me, I begin to drift off to the old days back home, remembering how it used to be when I was a little girl and the whole family would go up north on the train for summer holidays. Big brother William would always let me have the window seat, and more often than not I wouldn’t say anything to anyone, riding with my face pressed against the window and looking out at the scenery, studying the sky and the trees and the water as the train sped through the wilderness. It was always so beautiful to me, so much more beautiful than the things in the city, and every year I would say to myself, Anna, you have never seen anything more beautiful than this—try to remember it, try to memorize all the beautiful things you are seeing, and in that way they will always be with you, even when you can’t see them anymore. I don’t think I ever looked harder at the world than on those train rides up north. I wanted everything to belong to me, for all that beauty to be a part of what I was, and I remember trying to remember it, trying to store it up for later, trying to hold on to it for a time when I would really need it. But the odd thing was that none of it ever stayed with me. I tried so hard, but somehow or other I always wound up losing it, and in the end the only thing I could remember was how hard I had tried. The things themselves passed too quickly, and by the time I saw them they were already flying out of my head, replaced by still more things that vanished before I could see them. The only thing that remains for me is a blur, a bright and beautiful blur. But the trees and the sky and the water—all that is gone. It was always gone, even before I had it.

  It will not do, then, simply to feel disgust. Everyone is prone to forgetfulness, even under the most favorable conditions, and in a place like this, with so much actually disappearing from the physical world, you can imagine how many things are forgotten all the time. In the end, the problem is not so much that people forget, but that they do not always forget the same thing. What still exists as a memory for one person can be irretrievably lost for another, and this creates difficulties, insuperable barriers against understanding. How can you talk to someone about airplanes, for example, if that person doesn’t know what an airplane is? It is a slow but ineluctable process of erasure. Words tend to last a bit longer than things, but eventually they fade too, along with the pictures they once evoked. Entire categories of objects disappear—flowerpots, for example, or cigarette filters, or rubber bands—and for a time you will be able to recognize those words, even if you cannot recall what they mean. But then, little by little, the words become only sounds, a random collection of glottals and fricatives, a storm of whirling phonemes, and finally the whole thing just collapses into gibberish. The word “flowerpot” will make no more sense to you than the word “splandigo.” Your mind will hear it, but it will register as something incomprehensible, a word from a language you cannot speak. As more and more of these foreign-sounding words crop up around you, conversations become rather strenuous. In effect, each person is speaking his own private language, and as the instances of shared understanding diminish, it becomes increasingly difficult to communicate with anyone.

  I had to give up the idea of going home. Of all the things that had happened to me so far, I believe that was the most difficult to take. Until then, I had deluded myself into thinking I could return whenever I wanted to. But with the sea wall now going up, with so many people mobilized to prevent departure, this comforting notion was dashed to bits. First Isabel had died, and then I had lost the apartment. My only consolation had been the thought of home, and now that suddenly had been taken from me as well. For the first time since coming to the city, I was engulfed by pessimism.

  I thought about striking off in the opposite direction. The Fiddler’s Rampart stood at the western edge of the city, and a travel permit was supposedly all you needed to walk through it. Anything would be better than the city, I felt, even the unknown, but after running back and forth between several government agencies, waiting in line day after day only to be told to take my request to yet another bureau, I finally learned that the price of travel permits had risen to two hundred glots. That was out of the question, since it would mean using up the better part of my funds in one go. I heard talk of an underground organization that smuggled people out of the city for a tenth the cost, but many people were of the opinion that it was actually a ruse—a clever form of entrapment devised by the new government. Policemen were posted at the far end of the tunnel, they said, and the moment you crawled through to the other side you were arrested—and then promptly dispatched to one of the forced labor camps in the southern mining zone. I had no way of knowing whether this rumor was true or false, but finding out did not seem worth the risk. Then winter came, and the question was settled for me. Any thoughts of leaving would have to wait until spring—assuming, of course, that I was able to last until spring. Given the circumstances, nothing seemed less sure to me than that.

  It was the hardest winter in memory—the Terrible Winter, as everyone called it—and even now, years after it happened, it still stands as a crucial event in the city’s history, a dividing line between one period and the next.

  The cold continued for five or six months. Every now and then there would be a short thaw, but these little spurts of warmth only added to the difficulties. It would snow for a week—immense, blinding storms that pummeled the city into whiteness—and then the sun would come out, burning briefly with a summer-like intensity. The snow would melt, and by mid-afternoon the streets would be flooded. The gutters would overflow with rushing water, and everywhere you looked there would be a mad sparkle of water and light, as though the whole world had been turned into a huge, dissolving crystal. Then, suddenly, the sky would grow dark, night would begin, and the temperature would fall below zero again—freezing the water so abruptly that the ice would form in weird configurations: bumps and ripples and whorls, entire waves caught in mid-undulation, a kind of geological frenzy in miniature. By morning, of course, walking would be next to impossible—people slipping all over themselves, skulls cracking on the ice, bodies flopping helplessly on the smooth, hard surfaces. Then it would snow again, and the cycle would be repeated. This went on for months, and by the time it was over, thousands and thousands were dead. For the homeless, survival was nearly out of the question, but even the sheltered and well-fed suffered innumerable losses. Old buildings collapsed under the weight of the snow, and whole families were crushed. The cold drove people out of their minds, and sitting around in an underheated apartment all day was finally not much better than being outside. People would smash up their furniture and burn it for a little warmth, and many of these fires got out of control. Buildings were destroyed almost every day, sometimes whole blocks and neighborhoods. Whenever one of these fires broke out, vast numbers of homeless people would flock to the site and stand there for as long as the building burned—revelling in the warmth, cheering the flames as they rose up into the sky. Every tree in the city was chopped down during the winter and burned for fuel. Every domestic animal disappeared; every bird was shot. Food shortages became so drastic that construction of the sea wall was suspended—just six months after it had begun—so that all available policemen could be used to guard the shipments of produce to the municipal markets. Even so, there were a number of food riots, which led to more deaths, more injuries, more disasters. No one knows how many people died during t
he winter, but I have heard estimates as high as one-third to one-fourth of the population.

  Somehow or other, my luck held out. In late November, I came close to being arrested in a food riot on Ptolemy Boulevard. There was an endless line that day as usual, and after waiting for more than two hours in the bitter cold without advancing, three men just ahead of me began insulting a police guard. The guard pulled out his billy club and came straight toward us, ready to swing at anyone who got in his way. The policy is to hit first and ask questions later, and I knew there wouldn’t be a chance for me to defend myself. Without even pausing to think, I broke out of the line and started sprinting down the street, running for all I was worth. Momentarily confused, the guard took two or three steps in my direction, but then he stopped, clearly wanting to keep his attention fixed on the crowd. If I was out of the picture, then so much the better as far as he was concerned. I kept on running, and just as I reached the corner, I heard the crowd erupt into ugly, hostile shouting behind me. This threw me into a real panic, for I knew that in a few minutes the whole area would be overwhelmed by a fresh contingent of riot police. I kept on running as fast as I could, darting down one street after another, too afraid even to look back. Finally, after a quarter of an hour, I found myself running alongside a large stone building. I couldn’t tell if I was being pursued or not, but just then a door opened a few feet up ahead and I rushed right into it. A thin man with glasses and a pale face was standing on the threshold, about to step outside, and he looked at me in horror as I slipped past him. I had entered what seemed to be an office of some kind—a small room with three or four desks in it and a clutter of papers and books.

  “You can’t come in here,” he said impatiently. “This is the library.”

  “I don’t care if it’s the governor’s mansion,” I said, doubling over as I tried to catch my breath. “I’m in here now, and no one’s going to get me out.”

  “I’ll have to report you,” he said in a smug, prissy voice. “You can’t just barge in here like that. This is the library, and no one’s allowed in without a pass.”

  I was too flustered by his sanctimonious attitude to know what to say. I was exhausted, at the end of my rope, and instead of trying to argue with him, I just pushed him to the ground as hard as I could. It was a ridiculous thing to do, but I wasn’t able to stop myself. The man’s glasses went flying off his face as he hit the floor, and for a moment I was even tempted to crush them under my foot.

  “Report me if you like,” I said. “But I’m not leaving here until someone drags me out.” Then, before he had a chance to get up, I turned around and ran through the door at the opposite end of the room.

  I came into a large hall, a vast and impressive room with a high-domed ceiling and marble floors. The sudden contrast between the tiny office and this enormous space was astonishing. My footsteps echoed back to me, and it was almost as though I could hear my breath resounding against the walls. Here and there, groups of people were pacing back and forth, talking quietly among themselves, obviously absorbed in serious conversations. A number of heads turned toward me when I entered the room, but that was only a reflex, and a moment later they all turned away again. I walked past these people as calmly and discreetly as I could, looking down at the floor and pretending that I knew where I was going. After thirty or forty feet I found a staircase and began walking up.

  This was the first time I had been in the National Library. It was a splendid edifice, with portraits on the walls of governors and generals, rows of Italianate columns, and beautiful inlaid marble—one of the landmark buildings of the city. As with everything else, however, its best days were behind it. A ceiling on the second floor had caved in, columns had toppled and cracked, books and papers were strewn everywhere. I continued to see clusters of people milling about—mostly men, I realized—but no one paid any attention to me. On the other side of the card catalogue shelves, I found a green leather door that led to an enclosed staircase. I followed these stairs up to the next level and then stepped out into a long, low-ceilinged hallway with numerous doors on either side of it. No one else was in the hall, and since I heard no sounds coming from behind the doors, I assumed the chambers were empty. I tried to open the first door on my right, but it was locked. The second door was also locked. Then, against all my expectations, the third door opened. Inside, five or six men were sitting around a wooden table, talking about something in urgent, animated voices. The room was bare and windowless, with yellowish paint peeling on the walls and water dripping from the ceiling. All of the men were bearded, were dressed in black clothes, and wore hats on their heads. I was so startled to discover them there that I let out a little gasp and began to shut the door. But the oldest man at the table turned and gave me a wonderful smile, a smile so filled with warmth and kindness that I hesitated.

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” he asked.

  His voice was heavily accented (the th’s were lost, and the w had been turned into a v), but I couldn’t tell which country he came from. Ist dere anyting ve can do fer yoo. Then I looked into his eyes, and a flicker of recognition shuddered through me.

  “I thought all the Jews were dead,” I whispered.

  “There are a few of us left,” he said, smiling at me again. “It’s not so easy to get rid of us, you know.”

  “I’m Jewish, too,” I blurted out. “My name is Anna Blume, and I came here from far away. I’ve been in the city for over a year now, looking for my brother. I don’t suppose you know him. His name is William. William Blume.”

  “No, my dear,” he said, shaking his head, “I’ve never met your brother.” He looked over at his colleagues across the table and asked them the same question, but none of them knew who William was.

  “It’s been a long time,” I said. “Unless he managed to escape somehow, I’m sure he’s dead.”

  “It’s very possible,” the Rabbi said gently. “So many have died, you know. It’s best not to expect miracles.”

  “I don’t believe in God anymore, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “I gave all that up when I was a little girl.”

  “It’s difficult not to,” the Rabbi said. “When you consider the evidence, there’s a good reason why so many think as you do.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that you believe in God,” I said.

  “We talk to him. But whether or not he hears us is another matter.”

  “My friend Isabel believed in God,” I continued. “She’s dead, too. I sold her Bible for seven glots to Mr. Gambino, the Resurrection Agent. That was a terrible thing to do, wasn’t it?”

  “Not necessarily. There are more important things than books, after all. Food comes before prayers.”

  It was strange what had come over me in the presence of this man, but the more I talked to him, the more I sounded like a child. Perhaps he reminded me of how things had been when I was very young, back in the dark ages when I still believed in what fathers and teachers said to me. I can’t say for sure, but the fact was that I felt on solid ground with him, and I knew that he was someone I could trust. Almost unconsciously, I found myself reaching into my coat pocket and pulling out the picture of Samuel Farr.

  “I’m also looking for this man,” I said. “His name is Samuel Farr, and there’s a good chance that he knows what happened to my brother.”

  I handed the picture to the Rabbi, but after studying it for several moments, he shook his head and said that he did not recognize the face. Just as I was beginning to feel disappointed, a man at the other end of the table spoke up. He was the youngest one there, and his reddish beard was smaller and wispier than anyone else’s.

  “Rabbi,” he said timidly. “May I say something?”

  “You don’t need permission, Isaac,” the Rabbi said. “You can say whatever you like.”

  “Nothing is certain, of course, but I believe I know who that person is,” the young man said. “At least, I know someone by that name. It might not be the person the young
lady is looking for, but I do know the name.”

  “Have a look at the picture, then,” the Rabbi said, sliding the photograph across the table to him.

  Isaac looked, and the expression on his face was so somber, so devoid of response, that I immediately lost hope. “It’s a very poor likeness,” he finally said. “But now that I’ve had a chance to study it, I don’t think there’s any question that this is the man.” Isaac’s pale, scholarly face broke into a smile. “I’ve talked to him several times,” he continued. “He’s an intelligent man, but extremely bitter. We disagree on just about everything.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Before I had a chance to say a word, the Rabbi asked, “Where can this man be found, Isaac?”

  “Mr. Farr is not far,” Isaac said, unable to resist the pun. He giggled briefly, then added: “He lives right here in the library.”

  “Is it true?” I finally said. “Is it really true?”

  “Of course it’s true. I can take you to him right now if you like.” Isaac hesitated, then turned to the Rabbi. “Assuming I have your permission.”

  The Rabbi looked somewhat worried, however. “Is this man attached to one of the academies?” he asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Isaac said. “I believe he’s an independent. He told me that he used to work for a newspaper somewhere.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “That’s exactly right. Samuel Farr is a journalist.”

  “And what does he do now?” the Rabbi asked, ignoring my interruption.

  “He’s writing a book. I don’t know the subject, but I gather that it has something to do with the city. We spoke a few times in the main lobby downstairs. He asks very penetrating questions.”