Jokes? the visitor asks, walking over to the desk, swiveling the chair by a hundred and eighty degrees, and sitting down with the pile of dossiers on his lap. As he does so, Mr. Blank stands up, shuffles forward for several feet, and then sits down on the bottom edge of the mattress, settling into roughly the same spot that Flood occupied earlier in the day.
Yes, jokes, Mr. Blank continues. I can’t remember them all, but there was one that struck me as especially good.
You wouldn’t mind telling it to me, would you? the visitor asks. I’m always on the lookout for good jokes.
I can try, Mr. Blank answers, and then he pauses for a few moments to collect his thoughts. Let’s see, he says. Hmmm. Let me see. I think it begins like this. A man walks into a bar in Chicago at five o’clock in the afternoon and orders three scotches. Not one after the other, but all three at once. The bartender is a little puzzled by this unusual request, but he doesn’t say anything and gives the man what he wants—three scotches, lined up on the bar in a row. The man drinks them down one by one, pays the bill, and leaves. The next day, he comes back at five o’clock and orders the same thing. Three scotches all at once. And the day after that, and every day after that for two weeks. Finally, curiosity gets the better of the barman. I don’t mean to be nosy, he says, but you’ve been in here every day for the past two weeks ordering your three scotches, and I’d just like to know why. Most people take them one at a time. Ah, the man says, the answer is very simple. I have two brothers. One of them lives in New York, one lives in San Francisco, and the three of us are very close. As a way of honoring our friendship, we all go into a bar at five in the afternoon and order three scotches, silently toasting one another’s health, pretending that we’re all together in the same place. The barman nods, finally understanding the reason for this strange ritual, and thinks no more about it. The business goes on for another four months. The man comes in every day at five o’clock, and the bartender serves him the three drinks. Then something happens. The man shows up at his regular hour one afternoon, but this time he orders only two scotches. The bartender is worried, and after a while he plucks up his courage and says: I don’t mean to be nosy, but every day for the past four and a half months you’ve come in here and ordered three scotches. Now you order two. I know it’s none of my business, but I just hope nothing’s gone wrong with your family. Nothing’s wrong, the man says, as bright and chipper as ever. What is it, then? the bartender asks. The answer is very simple, the man says. I’ve stopped drinking.
The visitor erupts in a prolonged fit of laughter, and while Mr. Blank does not join in, since he already knew the punch line, he nevertheless smiles at the man in the black shirt, pleased with himself for having pulled off the joke so well. When the hilarity at last dies down, the visitor looks at Mr. Blank and says: Do you know who I am?
I’m not sure, the old man replies. Not Fogg, in any case. But there’s no question that I’ve met you before—many times, I think.
I’m your lawyer.
My lawyer. That’s good … very good. I was hoping I’d see you today. We have a lot to talk about.
Yes, says the man in the black shirt, patting the bundle of files and folders on his lap. A great deal to talk about. But before we get down to that, I want you to take a good look at me and try to remember my name.
Mr. Blank looks carefully at the man’s thin, angular face, peers into his large gray eyes, studies his jaw and forehead and mouth, but in the end he can do no more than let out a sigh and shake his head in defeat.
I’m Quinn, Mr. Blank, the man says. Daniel Quinn. Your first operative.
Mr. Blank groans. He is mortified with shame, embarrassed to such a point that a part of him, the innermost part of him, wants to crawl into a hole and die. Please forgive me, he says. My dear Quinn—my brother, my comrade, my loyal friend. It’s these rotten pills I’ve been swallowing. They’ve screwed up my head, and I can’t tell if I’m coming or going anymore.
You sent me on more missions than anyone else, Quinn says. Do you remember the Stillman case?
A little, Mr. Blank replies. Peter Stillman. Junior and Senior, if I’m not mistaken. One of them wore white clothes. I forget which now, but I think it was the son.
Exactly right. The son. And then there was that strange business with Fanshawe.
Sophie’s first husband. The madman who disappeared.
Right again. But we mustn’t forget the passport either. A small point, I suppose, but it was tough work just the same.
What passport?
My passport. The one that Anna Blume found when you sent her on her mission.
Anna? Do you know Anna?
Of course. Everyone knows Anna. She’s something of a legend around here.
She deserves to be. There’s no woman like her in the world.
And then, last but not least, there was my aunt, Molly Fitzsimmons, the woman who married Walt Rawley. I helped him write his memoirs.
Walt who?
Rawley. Once known as Walt the Wonder Boy.
Ah, yes. That was a long time ago, wasn’t it?
Correct. A very long time ago.
And then?
That’s it. You retired me after that.
Why would I do such a thing? What was I thinking?
I’d put in all those years, and the time came for me to go. Operatives don’t last forever. It’s the nature of the business.
When was that?
Nineteen ninety-three.
And what year is it now?
Two thousand and five.
Twelve years. What have you been doing with yourself since … since I retired you?
Traveling, mostly. By now, I’ve visited nearly every country in the world.
And now you’re back, working as my lawyer. I’m glad it’s you, Quinn. I always felt I could trust you.
You can, Mr. Blank. That’s why I was given the job. Because we go so far back together.
You have to get me out of here. I don’t think I can take it anymore.
That won’t be easy. So many charges have been filed against you, I’m drowning in paperwork. You have to be patient. I wish I could give you an answer, but I have no idea how long it will take to sort things out.
Charges? What kind of charges?
The whole gamut, I’m afraid. From criminal indifference to sexual molestation. From conspiracy to commit fraud to negligent homicide. From defamation of character to first-degree murder. Shall I go on?
But I’m innocent. I’ve never done any of those things.
That’s a debatable point. It all depends on how you look at it.
And what happens if we lose?
The nature of the punishment is still open to question. One group is advocating clemency, an across-the-board pardon on every count. But others are out for blood. And not just one or two of them. There’s a whole gang, and they’re becoming more and more vociferous.
Blood. I don’t understand. You mean blood as in death?
Instead of answering, Quinn reaches into the pocket of his black shirt and pulls out a piece of paper, which he then unfolds in order to share what is written on it with Mr. Blank.
There was a meeting just two hours ago, Quinn says. I don’t want to scare you, but someone got up and actually proposed this as a possible solution. I quote: He shall be drawn through the streets to the place of his execution, there to be hanged and cut down alive, and his body shall be opened, his heart and bowels plucked out, and his privy members cut off and thrown into the fire before his eyes. Then his head shall be stricken off from his body, and his body shall be divided into four quarters, to be disposed of at our discretion.
Lovely, Mr. Blank sighs. And what gentle soul came up with that plan?
It doesn’t matter, Quinn says. I just want you to get a sense of what we’re dealing with. I’ll fight for you to the bitter end, but we have to be realistic. The way it looks now, we’re probably going to have to work out some compromises.
It was Fl
ood, wasn’t it? Mr. Blank asks. That odious little man who came in here and insulted me this morning.
No, as a matter of fact it wasn’t Flood, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a dangerous person. You were very wise to refuse his invitation to go to the park. Later on, we discovered that he’d concealed a knife in his jacket. Once he got you out of the room, he was planning to kill you.
Ah. I figured as much. That lousy, good-for-nothing piece of shit.
I know it’s hard being cooped up in this room, but I would suggest you stay here, Mr. Blank. If someone else invites you out for a walk in the park, invent some excuse and say no.
So there really is a park?
Yes, there really is a park.
And the birds. Are they in my head, or can I really hear them?
What kind of birds?
Crows or seagulls, I can’t tell which.
Seagulls.
Then we must be near the ocean.
You picked the spot yourself. In spite of everything that’s been going on here, you’ve gathered us all in a beautiful place. I’m thankful to you for that.
Then why don’t you let me see it? I can’t even open the goddamned window.
It’s for your own protection. You wanted to be on the top floor, but we can’t take any chances, can we?
I’m not going to commit suicide, if that’s what you mean.
I know that. But not everyone shares my opinion.
Another one of your compromises, huh?
By way of response, Quinn shrugs his shoulders, glances down, and looks at his watch.
Time is running short, he says. I’ve brought along the files of one case, and I think we should get to it now. Unless you’re feeling too tired, of course. If you prefer, I could always come back tomorrow.
No, no, Mr. Blank answers, waving his arm in disgust. Let’s get it over with now.
Quinn opens the top folder and removes four eight-by-ten black-and-white photographs. Wheeling himself forward in the chair, he hands them to Mr. Blank and says: Benjamin Sachs. Does the name ring any bells?
I think so, the old man replies, but I’m not sure.
It’s a bad one. One of the worst, as a matter of fact, but if we can mount a compelling defense against this charge, we might be able to set a precedent for the others. Do you follow me, Mr. Blank?
Mr. Blank nods in silence, already beginning to look through the pictures. The first one shows a tall, gangly man of about forty, perched on the railing of a fire escape in what appears to be Brooklyn, New York, looking out into the night in front of him—but then Mr. Blank moves on to the second photo, and suddenly that same man has lost his grip on the railing and is falling through the darkness, a silhouette of splayed limbs caught in midair, plunging toward the ground below. That is disturbing enough, but once Mr. Blank comes to the third picture, a shudder of recognition passes through him. The tall man is on a dirt road somewhere out in the country, and he is swinging a metal softball bat at a bearded man who is standing in front of him. The image is frozen at the precise instant the bat makes contact with the bearded man’s head, and from the look on his face it is clear that the blow will kill him, that within a matter of seconds he will fall to the ground with his skull crushed as blood pours from the wound and gathers in a puddle around his corpse.
Mr. Blank clutches his face, tearing at the skin with his fingers. He is finding it difficult to breathe now, for he already knows the subject of the fourth picture, even if he can’t remember how or why he knows it, and because he can anticipate the explosion of the homemade bomb that will tear the tall man apart and cast his mangled body to the four winds, he does not have the strength to look at it. Instead, he lets the four photographs slip out of his hands and fall to the floor, and then, bringing those same hands up to his face, he covers his eyes and begins to weep.
* * *
Now Quinn is gone, and once again Mr. Blank is alone in the room, sitting at the desk with the ballpoint pen in his right hand. The onrush of tears stopped more than twenty minutes ago, and as he opens the pad and turns to the second page, he says to himself: I was only doing my job. If things turned out badly, the report still had to be written, and I can’t be blamed for telling the truth, can I? Then, applying himself to the task at hand, he adds three more names to his list:
John Trause
Sophie
Daniel Quinn
Marco Fogg
Benjamin Sachs
Mr. Blank puts down the pen, closes the pad, and pushes both articles aside. He realizes now that he was hoping for a visit from Fogg, the man with all the funny stories, but even though there is no clock in the room and no watch on his wrist, meaning that he has no idea of the time, not even an approximate one, he senses that the hour for tea and light conversation has passed. Perhaps, before long, Anna will be coming back to serve him dinner, and if by chance it isn’t Anna who comes, but another woman or man sent in as a substitute, then he means to protest, to misbehave, to rant and shout, to cause such a ruckus that it will blow the very roof clear into the sky.
For want of anything better to do just now, Mr. Blank decides to go on with his reading. Directly below Trause’s story about Sigmund Graf and the Confederation there is a longer manuscript of some one hundred and forty pages, which, unlike the previous work, comes with a cover page that announces the title of the piece and the author’s name:
Travels in the Scriptorium
by
N. R. Fanshawe
Aha, Mr. Blank says out loud. That’s more like it. Maybe we’re finally getting somewhere, after all.
Then he turns to the first page and begins to read:
The old man sits on the edge of the narrow bed, palms spread out on his knees, head down, staring at the floor. He has no idea that a camera is planted in the ceiling directly above him. The shutter clicks silently once every second, producing eighty-six thousand four hundred still photos with each revolution of the earth. Even if he knew he was being watched, it wouldn’t make any difference. His mind is elsewhere, stranded among the figments in his head as he searches for an answer to the question that haunts him.
Who is he? What is he doing here? When did he arrive and how long will he remain? With any luck, time will tell us all. For the moment, our only task is to study the pictures as attentively as we can and refrain from drawing any premature conclusions.
There are a number of objects in the room, and on each one a strip of white tape has been affixed to the surface, bearing a single word written out in block letters. On the bedside table, for example, the word is TABLE. On the lamp, the word is LAMP. Even on the wall, which is not strictly speaking an object, there is a strip of tape that reads WALL. The old man looks up for a moment, sees the wall, sees the strip of tape attached to the wall, and pronounces the word wall in a soft voice. What cannot be known at this point is whether he is reading the word on the strip of tape or simply referring to the wall itself. It could be that he has forgotten how to read but still recognizes things for what they are and can call them by their names, or, conversely, that he has lost the ability to recognize things for what they are but still knows how to read.
He is dressed in blue-and-yellow striped cotton pajamas, and his feet are encased in a pair of black leather slippers. It is unclear to him exactly where he is. In the room, yes, but in what building is the room located? In a house? In a hospital? In a prison? He can’t remember how long he has been here or the nature of the circumstances that precipitated his removal to this place. Perhaps he has always been here; perhaps this is where he has lived since the day he was born. What he knows is that his heart is filled with an implacable sense of guilt. At the same time, he can’t escape the feeling that he is the victim of a terrible injustice.
There is one window in the room, but the shade is drawn, and as far as he can remember he has not yet looked out of it. Likewise with the door and its white porcelain knob. Is he locked in, or is he free to come and go as he wishes? He has yet to investig
ate this matter—for, as stated in the first paragraph above, his mind is elsewhere, adrift in the past as he wanders among the phantom beings that clutter his head, struggling to answer the question that haunts him.
The pictures do not lie, but neither do they tell the whole story. They are merely a record of time passing, the outward evidence. The old man’s age, for example, is difficult to determine from the slightly out-of-focus black-and-white images. The only fact that can be set down with any certainty is that he is not young, but the word old is a flexible term and can be used to describe a person anywhere between sixty and a hundred. We will therefore drop the epithet old man and henceforth refer to the person in the room as Mr. Blank. For the time being, no first name will be necessary.
Mr. Blank stands up from the bed at last, pauses briefly to steady his balance, and then shuffles over to the desk at the other end of the room. He feels tired, as if he has just woken from a fitful, too short night of sleep, and as the soles of his slippers scrape along the bare wood floor, he is reminded of the sound of sandpaper. Far off in the distance, beyond the room, beyond the building in which the room is located, he hears the faint cry of a bird—perhaps a crow, perhaps a seagull, he can’t tell which …
* * *
By now, Mr. Blank has read all he can stomach, and he is not the least bit amused. In an outburst of pent-up anger and frustration, he tosses the manuscript over his shoulder with a violent flick of the wrist, not even bothering to turn around to see where it lands. As it flutters through the air and then thuds to the floor behind him, he pounds his fist on the desk and says in a loud voice: When is this nonsense going to end?
* * *
It will never end. For Mr. Blank is one of us now, and struggle though he might to understand his predicament, he will always be lost. I believe I speak for all his charges when I say he is getting what he deserves—no more, no less. Not as a form of punishment, but as an act of supreme justice and compassion. Without him, we are nothing, but the paradox is that we, the figments of another mind, will outlive the mind that made us, for once we are thrown into the world, we continue to exist forever, and our stories go on being told, even after we are dead.