by Paul Auster
Visibility is poor, but through the fog Brick can dimly apprehend that he is flanked by woods on both sides, that there are no houses or buildings anywhere in sight, no telephone poles, no traffic signs, no indication of human presence except the road itself, a badly paved stretch of tar and asphalt with numerous cracks and potholes, no doubt unrepaired for years. He walks on for a mile, then another mile, and still no cars drive past, no people emerge from the emptiness. Finally, after twenty minutes or so, he hears something approaching him, a clanking, whooshing sound that he is at pains to identify. Out of the fog, a man on a bicycle comes pedaling toward him. Brick raises his hand to catch the man’s attention, calls out Hello, Please, Sir, but the cyclist ignores him and scoots on past. After a while, more people on bicycles start showing up, some riding in one direction, some in the other, but for all the notice they pay to Brick as he urges them to stop, he might as well be invisible.
Five or six miles farther down the road, signs of life begin to appear—or rather signs of former life: burned-out houses, collapsed food markets, a dead dog, several exploded cars. An old woman dressed in tattered clothes and pushing a shopping cart filled with her possessions suddenly looms up in front of him.
Excuse me, Brick says. Could you tell me if this is the road to Wellington?
The woman stops and looks at Brick with uncomprehending eyes. He notes a small tuft of whiskers sprouting from her chin, her wrinkled mouth, her gnarled, arthritic hands. Wellington? she says. Who asked you?
No one asked me, Brick says. I’m asking you.
Me? What do I have to do with it? I don’t even know you.
And I don’t know you. All I’m asking is if this is the road to Wellington.
The woman scrutinizes Brick for a moment and says, It’ll cost you five bucks.
Five bucks for a yes or no? You must be crazy.
Everyone’s crazy around here. Are you trying to tell me you’re not?
I’m not trying to tell you anything. I just want to know where I am.
You’re standing on a road, nitwit.
Yes, fine, I’m standing on a road, but what I want to know is if this road leads to Wellington.
Ten bucks.
Ten bucks?
Twenty bucks.
Forget it, Brick says, by now at the limit of his patience. I’ll figure it out for myself.
Figure out what? the woman asks.
Instead of answering her, Brick starts walking again, and as he strides off through the fog, he hears the woman burst out laughing behind him, as if someone has just told her a good joke . . .
The streets of Wellington. It’s past noon by the time he enters the city, exhausted and hungry, his feet aching from the rigors of the long trek. The sun has burned off the early morning fog, and as he wanders around in the fine, sixty-degree weather, Brick is heartened to discover that the place is still more or less intact, not some bombed-out war zone heaped with rubble and the bodies of dead civilians. He sees a number of destroyed buildings, some cratered streets, a few demolished barricades, but otherwise Wellington appears to be a functioning city, with pedestrians walking to and fro, people going in and out of shops, and no imminent threat hanging in the air. The only thing that distinguishes it from your normal American metropolis is the fact that there are no cars, trucks, or buses. Nearly everyone is moving around on foot, and those who aren’t walking are mounted on bicycles. It’s impossible for Brick to know yet if this is a result of a gasoline shortage or municipal policy, but he has to admit that the quiet has a pleasant effect, that he prefers it to the clamor and chaos of the streets in New York. Beyond that, however, Wellington has little to recommend it. It’s a shabby, down-at-the-heels kind of place, with ugly, poorly constructed buildings, nary a tree in sight, and mounds of uncollected garbage littering the sidewalks. A glum burg, perhaps, but not the out-and-out hellhole Brick was expecting.
His first order of business is to fill his stomach, but restaurants seem to be scarce in Wellington, and he prowls around for some time before spotting a small diner on a side street off one of the main avenues. It’s almost three o’clock, long past lunch hour, and the place is empty when he walks in. To his left is a counter with six vacant stools in front of it; to his right, running along the opposite wall, are four narrow booths, also vacant. Brick decides to sit at the counter. A few seconds after he settles onto one of the stools, a young woman emerges from the kitchen and slaps down a menu in front of him. She’s in her mid- to late twenties, a thin, pale blonde with a weary look in her eyes and the hint of a smile on her lips.
What’s good today? Brick asks, not bothering to open the menu.
More like, what do we have today, the waitress replies.
Oh? Well, what are the choices?
Tuna salad, chicken salad, and eggs. The tuna’s from yesterday, the chicken’s from two days ago, and the eggs came in this morning. We’ll cook them any way you like. Fried, scrambled, poached. Hard, medium, soft. Whatever, however.
Any bacon or sausage? Any toast or potatoes?
The waitress rolls her eyes in mock disbelief. Dream on, honey, she says. Eggs are eggs. Not eggs with something else. Just eggs.
All right, Brick says, feeling disappointed but nevertheless trying to keep up a good front, let’s go for the eggs.
How do you want them?
Let’s see. . . . How do I want them? Scrambled.
How many?
Three. No, make that four.
Four? That’ll cost you twenty bucks, you know. The waitress narrows her eyes, and she looks at Brick as if seeing him for the first time. Shaking her head, she adds: What are you doing in a dump like this with twenty dollars in your pocket?
Because I want eggs, Brick answers. Four scrambled eggs, served to me by . . .
Molly, the waitress says, giving him a smile. Molly Wald.
. . . by Molly Wald. Any objections to that?
None that I can think of.
So Brick orders his four scrambled eggs, struggling to maintain a light, bantering tone with the skinny, not unfriendly Molly Wald, but underneath it all he’s calculating that with prices like these—eggs going at five dollars a pop in a no-account greasy spoon—the money Tobak gave him that morning isn’t going to last very long. As Molly turns around and calls out the order into the kitchen behind her, Brick wonders if he should start questioning her about the war or play it closer to the vest and keep his mouth shut. Still undecided, he asks for a cup of coffee.
Sorry, no can do, Molly says, we’re all out. Hot tea. I can give you some hot tea if you like.
Okay, Brick says. A pot of tea. After a moment’s hesitation, he plucks up his courage and asks: Just out of curiosity, how much is it?
Five bucks.
Five bucks? It seems that everything in here costs five bucks.
Clearly thrown by his comment, Molly leans forward, plants her arms on the counter, and shakes her head. You’re kind of dumb, aren’t you?
Probably, Brick says.
We stopped using singles and coins six months ago. Where have you been, pal? Are you a foreigner or something?
I don’t know. I’m from New York. Does that make me a foreigner or not?
New York City?
Queens.
Molly lets out a sharp little laugh, which seems to convey both contempt and pity for her know-nothing customer. That’s rich, she says, really rich. A guy from New York who can’t tell his ass from his elbow.
I . . . uh . . . , Brick stammers, I’ve been sick. Out of commission. You know, in a hospital, and I haven’t kept up with what’s been going on.
Well, for your information, Mr. Stupid, Molly says, we’re in a war, and New York started it.
Oh?
Yes, oh. Secession. Maybe you’ve heard of it. When a state declares independence from the rest of the country. There are sixteen of us now, and God knows when it will end. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, but enough is enough. It wears you out, and pretty soon you’re just
sick of the whole business.
There was a lot of gunfire last night, Brick says, finally daring to ask a direct question. Who won?
The Federals attacked, but our troops fought them off. I doubt they’ll try that again anytime soon.
Which means that things are going to be fairly quiet in Wellington.
At least for now, yeah. Or so they say. But who knows?
A voice from the kitchen announces: Four scrambled, and a moment later a white plate appears on the shelf behind Molly. She pivots, takes hold of Brick’s meal, and sets it down in front of him. Then she begins preparing the tea.
The eggs prove to be dry and overcooked, and not even some healthy doses of salt and pepper can draw much flavor from them. Half-starved after his twelve-mile walk, Brick shovels one forkful of food into his mouth after another, chewing diligently on the rubbery eggs and washing them down with frequent sips of tea—which isn’t hot as advertised, but tepid. No matter, he says to himself. With so many unanswered questions to be dealt with, the quality of the food is the least of his worries. Pausing for a moment about midway through his combat with the eggs, Brick looks over at Molly, who is still standing behind the counter, watching him eat with her arms folded across her chest, shifting the weight of her body now onto her left leg, now onto her right, her green eyes flickering with what appears to be a kind of suppressed mirth.
What’s so funny? he asks.
Nothing, she says, shrugging her shoulders. It’s just that you’re eating so fast, you remind me of a dog we used to have when I was a kid.
Sorry, Brick says. I’m hungry.
So I gathered.
You also might have gathered that I’m new around here, he says. I don’t know a soul in Wellington, and I need a place to stay. I was wondering if you had any ideas.
For how long?
I don’t know. Maybe a night, maybe a week, maybe forever. It’s too soon to tell.
You’re pretty vague about it, aren’t you?
It can’t be helped. I’m in a situation, you see, an odd situation, and I’m kind of stumbling around in the dark. The fact is, I don’t even know what day it is.
Thursday, April nineteenth.
April nineteenth. Good. That’s just what I would have said. But what year?
Are you kidding?
No, unfortunately not. What year is it?
Two thousand and seven.
Strange.
Why strange?
Because it’s the right year, but everything else is wrong. Listen to me, Molly . . .
I’m listening, friend. I’m all ears.
Good. Now, if I said the words September eleventh to you, would they have any special meaning?
Not particularly.
And the World Trade Center?
The twin towers? Those tall buildings in New York?
Exactly.
What about them?
They’re still standing?
Of course they are. What’s wrong with you?
Nothing, Brick says, muttering to himself in a barely audible voice. Then, looking down at his half-eaten eggs, he whispers: One nightmare replaces another.
What? I didn’t hear you.
Lifting his head and looking Molly straight in the eyes, Brick asks her a final question: And there’s no war in Iraq, is there?
If you already know the answer, why ask me?
I just had to be sure. Forgive me.
Look, mister—
Owen. Owen Brick.
All right, Owen. I don’t know what your problem is, and I don’t know what happened to you in that hospital, but if I were you, I’d finish those eggs before they get cold. I’m going back into the kitchen to make a call. One of my cousins is the night manager of a little hotel around the corner. There could be a vacancy.
Why are you being so nice? You don’t even know me.
I’m not being nice. My cousin and I have a deal. Whenever I bring him a new customer, he gives me a ten percent cut on the first night. It’s strictly business, spaceman. If he has a room for you, you don’t owe me a thing.
It turns out that he does. By the time Brick has swallowed the last of his food (with the aid of yet another gulp of the now-cold tea), Molly has come back from the kitchen to give him the good news. There are three rooms available, she says, two of them for three hundred a night and the third for two hundred. Not knowing how much he can afford, she’s taken it upon herself to book him the room for two hundred, a clear indication, Brick thankfully notes, that despite her tough talk about strictly business, Molly has reduced her finder’s fee by ten dollars as a favor to him. Not such a bad girl, he thinks, no matter how hard she works at hiding it. Brick is feeling so lonely, so discombobulated by the events of the past twenty hours, he wishes she would abandon her post behind the counter and accompany him to the hotel, but he knows she can’t, and he’s too timid to ask her to make an exception for him. Instead, Molly sketches a diagram on a paper napkin, indicating the route he should follow to reach the Exeter Hotel, which is only one block away. Then he settles the tab, insisting that she accept a ten-dollar tip, and shakes her hand good-bye.
I hope I see you again, he says, suddenly and moronically on the verge of tears.
I’m always around, she replies. From eight to six, Monday through Friday. If you ever want another lousy meal, you know where to come.
The Exeter Hotel is a six-story limestone building in the middle of a block of discount shoe stores and dimly lit bars. It might have been an attractive place sixty or seventy years ago, but one look at the lobby, with its sagging, moth-eaten velvet chairs and dead potted palms, and Brick understands that two hundred dollars doesn’t buy you much in Wellington. He’s a bit stunned when the clerk behind the front desk insists that he pay for the night in advance, but since he’s unfamiliar with local customs, he doesn’t bother to protest. The clerk, who could pass for Serge Tobak’s twin brother, counts out the four fifty-dollar bills, sweeps them into a drawer below the cracked marble counter, and hands Brick the key to room 406. No signature or proof of identity required. When Brick asks where he can find the elevator, the clerk informs him that it’s broken.
Somewhat winded after climbing the four flights of stairs, Brick unlocks the door and enters his room. He observes that the bed has been made, that the white walls look and smell as if they’ve been freshly painted, that everything is relatively clean, but once he begins to look around in earnest, he is gripped by a pulverizing sense of dread. The room is so bleak and unwelcoming, he imagines that dozens of desperate people have checked into this place over the years with no other purpose than to commit suicide. Where has this impression come from? Is it his own state of mind, he wonders, or can it be borne out by the facts? The sparseness of the furniture, for example: just one bed and one battered wardrobe stranded in an overly large space. No chair, no phone. The absence of any pictures on the walls. The blank, cheerless bathroom, with a single miniature bar of soap lying in its wrapper on the white sink, a single white hand towel hanging on the rack, the rusted enamel in the white tub. Pacing around in an ever-spiraling funk, Brick decides to turn on the old black-and-white television next to the window. Maybe that will calm him down, he thinks, or, if luck is with him, maybe a newscast will be on and he can learn something about the war. A hollow, echoing ping emerges from the box as he pushes the button. A promising sign, he says to himself, but then, after a long wait as the machine slowly warms up, no image appears on the screen. Nothing but snow, and the strident hiss of static. He changes the channel. More snow, more static. He goes around the dial, but each stop produces the same result. Rather than simply turn off the television, Brick yanks the cord out of the wall. Then he sits down on the ancient bed, which groans under the weight of his body.
Before he has a chance to slump into a miasma of useless self-pity, someone knocks on the door. No doubt an employee of the hotel, Brick thinks, but secretly he’s hoping it’s Molly Wald, that somehow or other she’s managed to dash o
ut of the diner for a couple of minutes to check on him and make sure he’s all right. Not very probable, of course, and no sooner does he unlock the door than his fleeting hope is crushed. His visitor isn’t Molly, but neither is it an employee of the hotel. Instead, he finds himself standing in front of a tall, attractive woman with dark hair and blue eyes dressed in black jeans and a brown leather jacket—clothes similar to the ones Sarge Serge gave him that morning. As Brick studies her face, he is convinced they have met before, but his mind refuses to conjure up a memory of where or when.
Hi there, Owen, the woman says, flashing him a bright, brittle smile, and as he looks at her mouth, he notices that she’s wearing an intense shade of red lipstick.
I know you, don’t I? Brick answers. At least I think I do. Or maybe you just remind me of someone.
Virginia Blaine, the woman announces cheerfully, triumph ringing in her voice. Don’t you remember? You had a crush on me in the tenth grade.
Good God, Brick mutters, more lost than ever now. Virginia Blaine. We sat next to each other in Miss Blunt’s geometry class.
Aren’t you going to let me in?
Of course, of course, he says, stepping out of the doorway and watching her stride across the threshold.
Once she has cast her eyes around the grim, barren room, Virginia turns to him and says: What a horrible place. Why on earth did you check in here?
It’s a long story, Brick replies, not wanting to go into it.
This won’t do, Owen. We’ll have to find you something better.
Maybe tomorrow. I’ve already paid up for tonight, and I doubt they’d give me my money back now.
There isn’t even a chair to sit in.
I realize that. You can sit on the bed if you want to.
Thanks, Virginia says, glancing over at the worn-out green bedspread, I think I’ll stand.
What are you doing here? Brick asks, abruptly changing the subject.
I saw you walk into the hotel, and I came up to—
No, no, I don’t mean that, he says, cutting her off in mid-sentence. I’m talking about here, in Wellington, a city I’ve never even heard of. In this country, which is supposed to be America but isn’t America, at least not the America I know.