by Paul Auster
The letter came early in the spring of 1982. This time the postmark was from Boston, and the message was terse, more urgent than before. “Impossible to hold out any longer,” it said. “Must talk to you. 9 Columbus Square, Boston; April 1st. This is where it ends, I promise.”
I had less than a week to invent an excuse for going to Boston. This turned out to be more difficult than it should have been. Although I persisted in not wanting Sophie to know anything (feeling that it was the least I could do for her), I somehow balked at telling another lie, even though it had to be done. Two or three days slipped by without any progress, and in the end I concocted some lame story about having to consult papers in the Harvard library. I can’t even remember what papers they were supposed to be. Something to do with an article I was going to write, I think, but that could be wrong. The important thing was that Sophie did not raise any objections. Fine, she said, go right ahead, and so on. My gut feeling is that she suspected something was up, but that is only a feeling, and it would be pointless to speculate about it here. Where Sophie is concerned, I tend to believe that nothing is hidden.
I booked a seat for April first on the early train. On the morning of my departure, Paul woke up a little before five and climbed into bed with us. I roused myself an hour later and crept out of the room, pausing briefly at the door to watch Sophie and the baby in the dim gray light—sprawled out, impervious, the bodies I belonged to. Ben was in the kitchen upstairs, already dressed, eating a banana and drawing pictures. I scrambled some eggs for the two of us and told him that I was about to take a train to Boston. He wanted to know where Boston was.
“About two hundred miles from here,” I said.
“Is that as far away as space?”
“If you went straight up, you’d be getting close.”
“I think you should go to the moon. A rocket ship is better than a train.”
“I’ll do that on the way back. They have regular flights from Boston to the moon on Fridays. I’ll reserve a seat the moment I get there.”
“Good. Then you can tell me what it’s like.”
“If I find a moon rock, I’ll bring one back for you.”
“What about Paul?”
“I’ll get one for him, too.”
“No thanks.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t want a moon rock. Paul would put his in his mouth and choke.”
“What would you like instead?”
“An elephant.”
“There aren’t any elephants in space.”
“I know that. But you aren’t going to space.”
“True.”
“And I bet there are elephants in Boston.”
“You’re probably right. Do you want a pink elephant or a white elephant?”
“A gray elephant. A big fat one with lots of wrinkles.”
“No problem. Those are the easiest ones to find. Would you like it wrapped up in a box, or should I bring it home on a leash?”
“I think you should ride it home. Sitting on top with a crown on your head. Just like an emperor.”
“The emperor of what?”
“The emperor of little boys.”
“Do I get to have an empress?”
“Of course. Mommy is the empress. She’d like that. Maybe we should wake her up and tell her.”
“Let’s not. I’d rather surprise her with it when I get home.”
“Good idea. She won’t believe it until she sees it anyway.”
“Exactly. And we don’t want her to be disappointed. In case I can’t find the elephant.”
“Oh, you’ll find it, Dad. Don’t worry about that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you’re the emperor. An emperor can get anything he wants.”
It rained the whole way up, the sky even threatening snow by the time we reached Providence. In Boston, I bought myself an umbrella and covered the last two or three miles on foot. The streets were gloomy in the piss-gray air, and as I walked to the South End, I saw almost no one: a drunk, a group of teenagers, a telephone man, two or three stray mutts. Columbus Square consisted of ten or twelve houses in a row, fronting on a cobbled island that cut it off from the main thoroughfare. Number nine was the most dilapidated of the lot—four stories like the others, but sagging, with boards propping up the entranceway and the brick facade in need of mending. Still, there was an impressive solidity to it, a nineteenth-century elegance that continued to show through the cracks. I imagined large rooms with high ceilings, comfortable ledges by the bay window, molded ornaments in the plaster. But I did not get to see any of these things. As it turned out, I never got beyond the front hall.
There was a rusted metal clapper in the door, a half-sphere with a handle in the center, and when I twisted the handle, it made the sound of someone retching—a muffled, gagging sound that did not carry very far. I waited, but nothing happened. I twisted the bell again, but no one came. Then, testing the door with my hand, I saw that it wasn’t locked—pushed it open, paused, and went in. The front hall was empty. To my right was the staircase, with its mahogany banister and bare wooden steps; to my left were closed double doors, blocking off what was no doubt the parlor; straight ahead there was another door, also closed, that probably led to the kitchen. I hesitated for a moment, decided on the stairs, and was about to go up when I heard something from behind the double doors—a faint tapping, followed by a voice I couldn’t understand. I turned from the staircase and looked at the door, listening for the voice again. Nothing happened.
A long silence. Then, almost in a whisper, the voice spoke again. “In here,” it said.
I went to the doors and pressed my ear against the crack between them. “Is that you, Fanshawe?”
“Don’t use that name,” the voice said, more distinctly this time. “I won’t allow you to use that name.” The mouth of the person inside was lined up directly with my ear. Only the door was between us, and we were so close that I felt as if the words were being poured into my head. It was like listening to a man’s heart beating in his chest, like searching a body for a pulse. He stopped talking, and I could feel his breath slithering through the crack.
“Let me in,” I said. “Open the door and let me in.”
“I can’t do that,” the voice answered. “We’ll have to talk like this.”
I grabbed hold of the door knob and shook the doors in frustration. “Open up,” I said. “Open up, or I’ll break the door down.”
“No,” said the voice. “The door stays closed.” By now I was convinced that it was Fanshawe in there. I wanted it to be an imposter, but I recognized too much in that voice to pretend it was anyone else. “I’m standing here with a gun,” he said, “and it’s pointed right at you. If you come through the door, I’ll shoot.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Listen to this,” he said, and then I heard him turn away from the door. A second later a gun went off, followed by the sound of plaster falling to the floor. I tried to peer through the crack in the meantime, hoping to catch a glimpse of the room, but the space was too narrow. I could see no more than a thread of light, a single gray filament. Then the mouth returned, and I could no longer see even that.
“All right,” I said, “you have a gun. But if you don’t let me see you, how will I know you are who you say you are?”
“I haven’t said who I am.”
“Let me put it another way. How can I know I’m talking to the right person?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“At this late date, trust is about the last thing you should expect.”
“I’m telling you that I’m the right person. That should be enough. You’ve come to the right place, and I’m the right person.”
“I thought you wanted to see me. That’s what you said in your letter.”
“I said that I wanted to talk to you. There’s a difference.”
“Let’s not split hairs.”
; “I’m just reminding you of what I wrote.”
“Don’t push me too far, Fanshawe. There’s nothing to stop me from walking out.”
I heard a sudden intake of breath, and then a hand slapped violently against the door. “Not Fanshawe!” he shouted. “Not Fanshawe—ever again!”
I let a few moments pass, not wanting to provoke another outburst. The mouth withdrew from the crack, and I imagined that I heard groans from somewhere in the middle of the room—groans or sobs, I couldn’t tell which. I stood there waiting, not knowing what to say next. Eventually, the mouth returned, and after another long pause Fanshawe said, “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Forgive me. I didn’t want it to begin like this.”
“Just remember,” I said, “I’m only here because you asked me to come.”
“I know that. And I’m grateful to you for it.”
“It might help if you explained why you invited me.”
“Later. I don’t want to talk about that yet.”
“Then what?”
“Other things. The things that have happened.”
“I’m listening.”
“Because I don’t want you to hate me. Can you understand that?”
“I don’t hate you. There was a time when I did, but I’m over that now.”
“Today is my last day, you see. And I had to make sure.”
“Is this where you’ve been all along?”
“I came here about two years ago, I think.”
“And before that?”
“Here and there. That man was after me, and I had to keep moving. It gave me a feeling for travel, a real taste for it. Not at all what I had expected. My plan had always been to sit still and let the time run out.”
“You’re talking about Quinn?”
“Yes. The private detective.”
“Did he find you?”
“Twice. Once in New York. The next time down South.”
“Why did he lie about it?”
“Because I scared him to death. He knew what would hap pen to him if anyone found out.”
“He disappeared, you know. I couldn’t find a trace of him.”
“He’s somewhere. It’s not important.”
“How did you manage to get rid of him?”
“I turned everything around. He thought he was following me, but in fact I was following him. He found me in New York, of course, but I got away—wriggled right through his arms. After that, it was like playing a game. I led him along, leaving clues for him everywhere, making it impossible for him not to find me. But I was watching him the whole time, and when the moment came, I set him up, and he walked straight into my trap.”
“Very clever.”
“No. It was stupid. But I didn’t have any choice. It was either that or get hauled back—which would have meant being treated like a crazy man. I hated myself for it. He was only doing his job, after all, and it made me feel sorry for him. Pity disgusts me, especially when I find it in myself.”
“And then?”
“I couldn’t be sure if my trick had really worked. I thought Quinn might come after me again. And so I kept on moving, even when I didn’t have to. I lost about a year like that.”
“Where did you go?”
“The South, the Southwest. I wanted to stay where it was warm. I travelled on foot, you see, slept outside, tried to go where there weren’t many people. It’s an enormous country, you know. Absolutely bewildering. At one point, I stayed in the desert for about two months. Later, I lived in a shack at the edge of a Hopi reservation in Arizona. The Indians had a tribal council before giving me permission to stay there.”
“You’re making this up.”
“I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m telling you the story, that’s all. You can think anything you want.”
“And then?”
“I was somewhere in New Mexico. I went into a diner along the road one day to get a bite to eat, and someone had left a newspaper on the counter. So I picked it up and read it. That’s when I found out that a book of mine had been published.”
“Were you surprised?”
“That’s not quite the word I would use.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know. Angry, I think. Upset.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was angry because the book was garbage.”
“Writers never know how to judge their work.”
“No, the book was garbage, believe me. Everything I did was garbage.”
“Then why didn’t you destroy it?”
“I was too attached to it. But that doesn’t make it good. A baby is attached to his caca, but no one fusses about it. It’s strictly his own business.”
“Then why did you make Sophie promise to show me the work?”
“To appease her. But you know that already. You figured that out a long time ago. That was my excuse. My real reason was to find a new husband for her.”
“It worked.”
“It had to work. I didn’t pick just anyone, you know.”
“And the manuscripts?”
“I thought you would throw them away. It never occurred to me that anyone would take the work seriously.”
“What did you do after you read that the book had been published?”
“I went back to New York. It was an absurd thing to do, but I was a little beside myself, not thinking clearly anymore. The book trapped me into what I had done, you see, and I had to wrestle with it all over again. Once the book was published, I couldn’t turn back.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“That’s what you were supposed to think. If nothing else, it proved to me that Quinn was no longer a problem. But this new problem was much worse. That’s when I wrote you the letter.”
“That was a vicious thing to do.”
“I was angry at you. I wanted you to suffer, to live with the same things I had to live with. The instant after I dropped it in the mailbox, I regretted it.”
“Too late.”
“Yes. Too late.”
“How long did you stay in New York?”
“I don’t know. Six or eight months, I think.”
“How did you live? How did you earn the money to live?”
“I stole things.”
“Why don’t you tell the truth?”
“I’m doing my best. I’m telling you everything I’m able to tell.”
“What else did you do in New York?”
“I watched you. I watched you and Sophie and the baby. There was even a time when I camped outside your apartment building. For two or three weeks, maybe a month. I followed you everywhere you went. Once or twice, I even bumped into you on the street, looked you straight in the eye. But you never noticed. It was fantastic the way you didn’t see me.”
“You’re making all this up.”
“I must not look the same anymore.”
“No one can change that much.”
“I think I’m unrecognizable. But that was a lucky thing for you. If anything had happened, I probably would have killed you. That whole time in New York, I was filled with murderous thoughts. Bad stuff. I came close to a kind of horror there.”
“What stopped you?”
“I found the courage to leave.”
“That was noble of you.”
“I’m not trying to defend myself. I’m just giving you the story.”
“Then what?”
“I shipped out again. I still had my merchant seaman’s card, and I signed on with a Greek freighter. It was disgusting, truly repulsive from beginning to end. But I deserved it; it was exactly what I wanted. The ship went everywhere—India, Japan, all over the world. I didn’t get off once. Every time we came to a port, I would go down to my cabin and lock myself in. I spent two years like that, seeing nothing, doing nothing, living like a dead man.”
“While I was trying to write the story of your life.”
“Is that what you were d
oing?”
“So it would seem.”
“A big mistake.”
“You don’t have to tell me. I found that out for myself.”
“The ship pulled into Boston one day, and I decided to get off. I had saved a tremendous amount of money, more than enough to buy this house. I’ve been here ever since.”