by Jesse Ball
—You’ve got to stay awake now, Mora. The hospital doesn’t want you to fall asleep. If you do, you’ll sleep forever, and that wouldn’t be any good for any of us.
Mora opened her eyes again. They were gray. She looked up at me.
—Who are you? she asked.
—Selah Morse, I said again. You don’t remember me?
—No, she said. I don’t remember anything.
—Well, don’t worry, I said. Things will be sorted out shortly. The important thing is that you’re okay.
She smiled again and closed her eyes. The doctor came in.
—Mr. Morse? he asked.
I did a half bow.
—I’m Dr. Platt. You’ll have to leave while we examine the patient. Someone will fetch you afterwards.
—Good-bye for now, Mora, I said, bending over the gurney and kissing her on the cheek.
I wasn’t sure whether I was going to do it, and then I had done it. Her skin was very soft.
—Good-bye, she said.
After fifteen minutes or so, an attendant came out to call me back in. He was a large man, quite hairy.
—Morse! he called out.
—Here, I said, and hurried after.
As we walked down the hall, the doctor emerged from a side room.
—Well, he said, she had quite a blow to the head. Strangely, her body is largely unhurt where the taxi hit her. The only damage is due to the concussion. She seems to have entirely lost her memory. It will come back, probably, but these things take time. It would be helpful for you to construct a book for her, detailing her past circumstances. Such memory aids can help patients regain what they’ve lost.
—I see, I said.
—The important thing for the next eighteen hours, he said, is to keep her awake. She can be discharged tonight, as long as you’ll take her somewhere quiet and stay with her.
—I’ll do that, I said.
We had paused in the hall. The hairy attendant had gone on. The doctor’s expression was kind. He gave the impression of being in the process of doing a hundred things at once, yet having truly and certainly a moment free in which to stand here quietly speaking with me.
—I’ll do that, I said again.
—Good, good. There’ll be some papers to sign. Insurance, etc. You should go in now and see her. She’s been asking for you.
I shook his hand.
—Thanks, Dr. Platt, I said.
—No trouble.
The doctor paused a moment longer. He looked on the verge of asking me a question.
—If you don’t mind my asking, he said, where do you buy your suits?
I looked at him a moment.
—It’s just that they remind me of the sort the secret policemen used to wear back in Albania. I was raised there. I’m sure it’s the same design.
I held out my arm for him to feel the fabric. He did.
—From an Albanian tailor on East Fourth Street, I said.
I considered telling him about the secret pockets, but refrained.
—The man’s a miscreant, I continued. He is difficult to deal with. The only way we can get him to do anything is by sending a girl named Rita over. She’s lovely and young, and he’ll talk to her.
—Thanks, said Dr. Platt. I’ll look into it. East Fourth…
—Between First and Second, I finished.
—You make that book for her, he said. Everything you can remember about her life. No matter how small or picayune.
—I’m looking forward to it, I said.
I went back into Mora’s room. She was wearing a hospital gown, sitting up, and eating what looked like a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
—I thought that was reserved for children who’ve just had their tonsils out, I said reprovingly.
—Didn’t I get my tonsils out? she asked, as if meanwhile winking, though she did not actually wink.
This was a special gesture that she had perfected.
—Not yet, I said. We can stay for that, though, if you like.
—I’d rather go, she said. Can we?
—Yes, let’s, I said. Give me a moment.
I went back out into the hall and down to the clerks’ counter. I showed them my Seventh Ministry badge and explained that this visit had never taken place. While there was no real reason for them to believe me, they did. Through a half-open door, the doctor was watching me. I smiled and waved. He waved back. I returned to Mora’s room.
—Well, Mora, I said. It’s time to go. Get changed and we’ll head out.
—To where? she asked.
—Well, I suppose we’ll go back to my place.
—All right, she said. Close that curtain and help me with this thing.
I shut the curtain and turned around. She had gotten out of bed and was trying unsuccessfully to untie the dressing gown. She turned her back to me.
—Untie that, she said. You know, this is all very strange. I don’t remember you at all. Not even a little. Are you sure you’re my boyfriend?
—Quite sure, I said. You have a little tattoo of the Morton salt girl with an umbrella on the small of your back.
—Do I? she asked, trying to look over her shoulder.
—No, I said. I was just joking.
I untied the dressing gown. Underneath she had only her underwear on, and it was all I could do to act as though I had seen this spectacle a thousand times. I fetched her dress from off a chair and handed it to her. She pulled it over her head, then slipped on a pair of green shoes. Extending her arm, she said:
—Shall we?
—Yes, let’s.
And so we left the hospital together. There was a line of taxis outside. I chose one at random and told the cabbie my address. Mora sat down in the taxi and I sat beside her.
—I’m not entirely sure, she said, that I ever knew you.
—Be sure of it, I said. You’ve got to stay awake.
—How will I manage it? she asked. I’m already tired.
—Easy enough, I said. I’ll tell you stories.
—That sounds just fine, said Mora, resting her head on my shoulder. When will you begin?
—At the room I let, I said. Many things begin there.
My apartment was in the top floor of an old building. It had an elevator controlled by cables, and wide factory windows. Mora was pleased greatly by the elevator, and even more so by my rooms. I had purchased an old printing press with the money I made from my new profession, and I had outfitted the place as a thoroughgoing pamphleteer’s hideout.
She sat down on a sofa and looked around happily.
—Something to drink? I asked.
—A mint julep, she said. That and only that.
Luckily I was in the habit of drinking mint juleps. I made a pitcher and brought it in. The making of mint juleps is a glad and pleasing experience, particularly when it is done on the behalf of a young woman who has lost her memory.
—And now, I said, handing her a tumbler full of ice, our story begins.
I took a long drink of mint julep.
—Young man, let me look at you.
The room was broad, and lit from behind by many tiny windows that lined the stark white walls. Light came through in a hideous clarity, focused just beyond the glass by the shining leaves of the enormous oaks from the street. A thin man, my uncle, came around the desk towards me.
I, smiling, nodding. My uncle looked very glad to see me. Always pleasant to be seen by one who’s glad to see you. That’s the way.
—My boy, I heard the bad news. If there’s anything I can do for you…I hope the car ride wasn’t too long. I told them to come directly, of course.
—Not long. I had a newspaper.
—Good, good. (An embrace.)
—You’ve had your hair cut, haven’t you? he asked. Cut with a straight razor, looks like.
—Yes, I said, just now. I do it myself, a couple times a year.
—You use a mirror? he asked.
—No, I said, just a razor and a comb.
In fact, I close my eyes.
—Not bad, he said. It’s the old way, isn’t it? Way they used to do it…I’d like to see that. Tell me next time, and I’ll send the car. Anyway, you might want to use a mirror. You missed a few spots.
He gave me another pat, then unhanded me, went back around the desk, and sat down with the air of a man who has often sat down in the presence of others who remain standing.
—I have given your situation some thought, Selah. It has come to my attention that you could use a bit of work. I thought about several of the many options that exist and I have come to certain conclusions.
—I…
—Enough of that, he said. I have conferred with some cronies of mine, and I am going to install you in a position, the duties of which I’m certain you will discharge.
He pressed a button behind his desk and a door on the far side of the room opened. A man came out. He seemed to be in a hurry. Nodding to my uncle, he immediately addressed me.
—Selah Morse?
I nodded. A strange-looking man. He reminded me of a devil-bird that once had roosted in the tree outside of my window. It would never leave, but would always sit upon a certain branch and cackle at me. Whenever it was present, I would have bad dreams. I passed two years of my life in this way with the devil-bird.
—Come with me please.
He watched me as I stood there.
My uncle nodded.
—I think you’ll find the work fascinating. Come and see me sometime. We’ll go to the zoo after hours and shoot ducks.
But already I was following the birdlike man through the paneling. There was a chute there. I climbed into it and found myself shot out of a vent unit onto a grassy lawn at street level.
—Call me Levkin, the man said in a very comforting voice.
I nodded.
I followed Levkin down the block. He had a rapid way of walking with hardly any wasted motion. He turned several times, finally coming to a sort of pocket-park. In the center, a grand building in the Federalist style. We crossed the park, mounted the steps, and entered, he turning in the lock a sort of monkey-faced key.
Within there was an entry room. A desk stood opposite the door. On it a very pretty girl lay sleeping. She was quite slender, and expensively dressed. She gave one the impression of a cat, insomuch as were one to wake her it seemed she would be likely to scratch or bite you with great animosity.
I looked at Levkin. He had his finger over his lips. Softly he said:
—That’s Rita, the message-girl.
—Messages for what? I whispered.
—Just to keep us on our toes, you know, he whispered back.
He passed on through a left-hand door into a long sort of sitting room. There were tables, chairs, and sofas, as well as a large armoire. He opened it with the same monkey-faced key. Inside were a great number of identical suits, in various sizes. Identical to the suit he himself was wearing. It was an elegant suit, obviously costly, but very quiet. As quiet as the passage of six mice over a carpet.
—Is it always that quiet? I asked.
—Generally, he said. What’s your size?
I reached past him and took a suit at random.
—Your lair is up a ladder, he said.
I grinned. What a fine fellow Levkin was turning out to be.
We exited the sitting room and proceeded back past Rita, who was still quite asleep. From this new angle I could partially see down the front of her shirt. It was very exciting.
—In here, said Levkin.
Through the right-hand door we went. A hallway led to the back of the house. There was a ladder on one side and a stair on the other. Levkin climbed up the ladder. I followed. At the top, a landing and a door. On the door there was a name-plate. It said, SELAH MORSE, MUNICIPAL INSPECTOR. He opened the door.
—Your office. On the desk, a letter in explanation. Rita will follow, perhaps bringing tea. She is difficult to predict.
Levkin did a sort of half bow, and vanished back through the door and down the ladder, leaving me to survey my new premises. It was a fine room. A very long window ran much of the way along the wall, giving a view out onto the park. A dog was chasing another dog, which was chasing the first dog unsuccessfully. I felt that this meant something. I wrote it down on a pad of paper.
Dog chasing dog itself chasing dog, but not fast enough.
I illustrated the note, took out a penknife, held the note against the wall, and stabbed the penknife through it. I checked. The note was held securely. As I did this, Rita entered and leaned against the wall.
—Dressing up the place? she asked.
—Is that my tea? I asked.
—It can be.
She crossed the room and set the tea down on a small table by the window. With a sigh she threw herself down into a large leather divan and sat watching me.
I shook my head. I picked the suit up, went into the bathroom, and put it on. It fit perfectly. Pants, shirt, vest. There was even a pocket watch. My old clothes I put into a chute labeled,
THE FIRE THAT AWAITS US
Rita came into the bathroom.
—Not bad, she said, and held the suit coat up for me.
She spun around and left out a different door, one on the far side of the room.
Only after she was gone did I wonder, how had she climbed the ladder with a cup of tea on a saucer?
Turning back to the desk I found an envelope. Within there was a letter, three days old.
Seventh Ministry
20 July xxxx
Mr. Selah Morse,
I have it on good authority from Rita, the message-girl, that you cannot be trusted with any task, and that we should despair of your ever becoming a useful member of our little cadre. However, at the time of her saying this, Rita was operating under the clever assumption that you were only an idea and not an actual person. The contrary, rather, is the case. You are an actual person, and the work that you have to accomplish here is merely an idea.
An elephant wandered apart from Hannibal’s army as he was crossing the Alps. It ventured into a Swiss town and befriended a man named Tulich. Tulich went on to become the greatest clockmaker the world has ever seen, mostly, we now think, because of the secrets the elephant told him.
Do you understand? We inspect things. Vaguer and vaguer! I’m sure you understand now. After all, you were recommended to us as a sly young man. This you had best prove.
Senior Inspector, Seventh Ministry
Mars Levkin
I set the paper down. By the window I found my tea. It was quite warm still. The appropriate amount of milk and sugar was in it.
—Don’t drink too much, said Rita, opening the door again. It’s poisoned. Only slightly, but still poisoned. I had decided to poison you and give you the antidote every day so that you would be forced to obey me, but now I’ve changed my mind.
She had a tray this time. On the tray was another envelope, and a cup of tea. She brought it over and set it down gently.
—I’m Rita the message-girl, she said.
—I’ve been told that, I replied.
She adjusted the hem of her skirt.
—Any messages to send? she said.
—Could you tell Levkin that—
—No! she said. Only written messages. Or phone messages. What sort of message girl do you think I am?
She stalked off, leaving me with the tea and letter.
I took a sip of the tea. Earl Grey, with just the right amount of milk and sugar. Thank you, Rita. I opened the letter.
Seventh Ministry
20st July xxxx
M.I. Selah Morse,
I do hope you’re settling in. Things have been dreadfully strange around here ever since Maude ran away (the gray tabby with the cute limp). I think you are quite handsome and pleasant to talk to, and you mustn’t get the wrong idea about me. I am excited to see if you can do the work, and if you like it. Also, I had a cousin named Selah who died when he was very young. He died right after he l
earned to read. The doctor said some people aren’t meant to read. Giving him a book, say, Goodnight, Moon, was as good as murder. No one knows if he was joking or not, but we have to assume so. Was it a funny joke? I have never been in a position to tell. Anyway, good-bye for now.
Rita Liszt, M.G.
Seventh Ministry
I closed the letter and smiled to myself. On an ordinary day, I would be reading in the park or working on one of my pamphlets in my cramped apartment. Was it true? Had I really come up in the world?
I went back into the bathroom and examined myself in the mirror. The suit did fit rather well. This was the first uniform I had ever worn, and it was pleasing to me in some sense to be a part of a larger endeavor. When I came out of the bathroom, Levkin was seated by the window.
—Can’t stay in one place, can you? I said.
—Mostly, he said. Anyway, that’s the job. Do you understand what’s involved?
—When do we leave? I asked.
—Let me tell you a story, he said. By way of illustrating a point. There was a man named Carlov. He was a strongman in a circus. His trick—you know, all performers have to have some trick—was to pick himself up. Now most people, no matter how strong they are, cannot pick themselves up. Somehow Carlov was able to do this, I guess it was a matter of leverage or something. You know, where his muscles were connected, etc. In any case, he would come out onstage, pick himself up, stand there for a while, while everyone gawked—I mean, the thing looked totally impossible—and then put himself back down. He made loads of money, but most of it went to his manager, a guy named Wales Carson. In the end, I was asked by the city to investigate these proceedings. I went down there and watched the performance for days. I went dozens of times. I just couldn’t figure out how he was managing to pick himself up.
Levkin took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lit one, and leaned back in his chair.