by Laird Hunt
Sadness the first powder to be abided upon waking. It may reside in tools or garments and can be eradicated with more of itself, in which case the face results as a placid system coursing with water, heaving.
—BEN MARCUS
The Age of Wire and String
“To the right,” said the peasant. “That will be the road to Manilovka; but there is no Zamanilovka. That’s what it’s called, I mean to say, its name is Manilovka, but there is nothing like Zamanilovka here.”
—GOGOL
Dead Souls
NOT LONG AFTER THAT IS WHEN I LEFT. They came one night, shook my hand, and gave me a ticket. The next evening I was on a train, and late that night I got on a boat. The passage took several days. The captain would make announcements over the intercom. Then one evening at dusk I saw a great white city and the boat docked. In addition to the ticket, they had given me an envelope. In it I found a stack of bills, an address, and a set of keys. A taxi dropped me off on a poorly lit street in front of a building draped in black netting. The downstairs lock turned easily. I went up a flight of stairs. Another. The door was open. Come in, a voice said. The room I went into was large with high ceilings and several windows. A woman was sitting at a small round table under a handsome metal floor lamp. She had very high cheekbones. She looked very young. As I entered, she placed her hands on the table and stood. My instructions were to verify your arrival, she said. She walked past me. She had a slight limp. She said something I couldn’t catch and was gone.