In the Country of Last Things (12 page)

“Report me if you like,” I said. “But I’m not leaving here until someone drags me out.” Then, before he had a chance to get up, I turned around and ran through the door at the opposite end of the room.

I came into a large hall, a vast and impressive room with a high-domed ceiling and marble floors. The sudden contrast between the tiny office and this enormous space was astonishing. My footsteps echoed back to me, and it was almost as though I could hear my breath resounding against the walls. Here and there, groups of people were pacing back and forth, talking quietly among themselves, obviously absorbed in serious conversations. A number of heads turned toward me when I entered the room, but that was only a reflex, and a moment later they all turned away again. I walked past these people as calmly and discreetly as I could, looking down at the floor and pretending that I knew where I was going. After thirty or forty feet I found a staircase and began walking up.

This was the first time I had been in the National Library. It was a splendid edifice, with portraits on the walls of governors and generals, rows of Italianate columns, and beautiful inlaid marble—one of the landmark buildings of the city. As with everything else, however, its best days were behind it. A ceiling on the second floor had caved in, columns had toppled and cracked, books and papers were strewn everywhere. I continued to see clusters of people milling about—mostly men, I realized—but no one paid any attention to me. On the other side of the card catalogue shelves, I found a green leather door that led to an enclosed staircase. I followed these stairs up to the next level and then stepped out into a long, low-ceilinged hallway with numerous doors on either side of it. No one else was in the hall, and since I heard no sounds coming from behind the doors, I assumed the chambers were empty. I tried to open the first door on my right, but it was locked. The second door was also
locked. Then, against all my expectations, the third door opened. Inside, five or six men were sitting around a wooden table, talking about something in urgent, animated voices. The room was bare and windowless, with yellowish paint peeling on the walls and water dripping from the ceiling. All of the men were bearded, were dressed in black clothes, and wore hats on their heads. I was so startled to discover them there that I let out a little gasp and began to shut the door. But the oldest man at the table turned and gave me a wonderful smile, a smile so filled with warmth and kindness that I hesitated.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” he asked.

His voice was heavily accented (the th’s were lost, and the w had been turned into a v), but I couldn’t tell which country he came from. Ist dere anyting ve can do fer yoo. Then I looked into his eyes, and a flicker of recognition shuddered through me.

“I thought all the Jews were dead,” I whispered.

“There are a few of us left,” he said, smiling at me again. “It’s not so easy to get rid of us, you know.”

“I’m Jewish, too,” I blurted out. “My name is Anna Blume, and I came here from far away. I’ve been in the city for over a year now, looking for my brother. I don’t suppose you know him. His name is William. William Blume.”

“No, my dear,” he said, shaking his head, “I’ve never met your brother.” He looked over at his colleagues across the table and asked them the same question, but none of them knew who William was.

“It’s been a long time,” I said. “Unless he managed to escape somehow, I’m sure he’s dead.”

“It’s very possible,” the Rabbi said gently. “So many have died, you know. It’s best not to expect miracles.”

“I don’t believe in God anymore, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “I gave all that up when I was a little girl.”

“It’s difficult not to,” the Rabbi said. “When you consider the evidence, there’s a good reason why so many think as you do.”

“You’re not going to tell me that
you
believe in God,” I said.

“We talk to him. But whether or not he hears us is another matter.”

“My friend Isabel believed in God,” I continued. “She’s dead, too. I sold her Bible for seven glots to Mr. Gambino, the Resurrection Agent. That was a terrible thing to do, wasn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. There are more important things than books, after all. Food comes before prayers.”

It was strange what had come over me in the presence of this man, but the more I talked to him, the more I sounded like a child. Perhaps he reminded me of how things had been when I was very young, back in the dark ages when I still believed in what fathers and teachers said to me. I can’t say for sure, but the fact was that I felt on solid ground with him, and I knew that he was someone I could trust. Almost unconsciously, I found myself reaching into my coat pocket and pulling out the picture of Samuel Farr.

“I’m also looking for this man,” I said. “His name is Samuel Farr, and there’s a good chance that he knows what happened to my brother.”

I handed the picture to the Rabbi, but after studying it for several moments, he shook his head and said that he did not recognize the face. Just as I was beginning to feel disappointed, a man at the other end of the table spoke up.
He was the youngest one there, and his reddish beard was smaller and wispier than anyone else’s.

“Rabbi,” he said timidly. “May I say something?”

“You don’t need permission, Isaac,” the Rabbi said. “You can say whatever you like.”

“Nothing is certain, of course, but I believe I know who that person is,” the young man said. “At least, I know someone by that name. It might not be the person the young lady is looking for, but I do know the name.”

“Have a look at the picture, then,” the Rabbi said, sliding the photograph across the table to him.

Isaac looked, and the expression on his face was so somber, so devoid of response, that I immediately lost hope. “It’s a very poor likeness,” he finally said. “But now that I’ve had a chance to study it, I don’t think there’s any question that this is the man.” Isaac’s pale, scholarly face broke into a smile. “I’ve talked to him several times,” he continued. “He’s an intelligent man, but extremely bitter. We disagree on just about everything.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Before I had a chance to say a word, the Rabbi asked, “Where can this man be found, Isaac?”

“Mr. Farr is not far,” Isaac said, unable to resist the pun. He giggled briefly, then added: “He lives right here in the library.”

“Is it true?” I finally said. “Is it really true?”

“Of course it’s true. I can take you to him right now if you like.” Isaac hesitated, then turned to the Rabbi. “Assuming I have your permission.”

The Rabbi looked somewhat worried, however. “Is this man attached to one of the academies?” he asked.

“Not that I know of,” Isaac said. “I believe he’s an independent. He told me that he used to work for a newspaper somewhere.”

“That’s right,” I said. “That’s exactly right. Samuel Farr is a journalist.”

“And what does he do now?” the Rabbi asked, ignoring my interruption.

“He’s writing a book. I don’t know the subject, but I gather that it has something to do with the city. We spoke a few times in the main lobby downstairs. He asks very penetrating questions.”

“Is he sympathetic?” the Rabbi asked.

“He’s neutral,” Isaac said, “neither for nor against. He’s a tormented man, but absolutely fair, with no axes to grind.”

The Rabbi turned to me to explain. “You understand that we have many enemies,” he said. “Our permit is in jeopardy because we no longer have full academy status, and I have to proceed with great caution.” I nodded, trying to act as though I knew what he was talking about. “But under the circumstances,” he continued, “I don’t see what harm it can do for Isaac to show you where this man lives.”

“Thank you, Rabbi,” I said. “I’m very grateful to you.”

“Isaac will take you to the door, but I don’t want him going any farther than that. Is that clear, Isaac?” He looked at his disciple with an air of calm authority.

“Yes, Rabbi,” Isaac said.

Then the Rabbi stood up from his chair and shook my hand. “You must come back and visit me sometime, Anna,” he said, suddenly looking very old, very weary. “I want to know how everything turns out.”

“I’ll be back,” I said. “I promise.”

______

The room was on the ninth floor, the very top of the building. Isaac scurried off the moment we got there, mumbling an inarticulate apology about not being able to stay, and then I was suddenly alone again, standing in the pitch dark hall with a tiny candle burning in my left hand. There is a law of city life that says you must never knock on a door unless you know what is on the other side. Had I come all this way only to bring down some new calamity on my head? Samuel Farr was no more than a name to me, an emblem of impossible longings and absurd hopes. I had used him as a spur to keep myself going, but now that I had finally made it to his door, I felt terrified. If the candle had not been burning down so quickly, I might never have found the courage to knock.

A harsh, unfriendly voice called out from within the room. “Go away,” it said.

“I’m looking for Samuel Farr. Is that Samuel Farr in there?”

“Who wants to know?” the voice asked.

“Anna Blume,” I said.

“I don’t know any Anna Blume,” the voice answered. “Go away.”

“I’m William Blume’s sister,” I said. “I’ve been trying to find you for over a year. You can’t send me away now. If you won’t open the door, I’ll just keep knocking until you do.”

I heard a chair scrape along the floor, followed the sound of steps moving closer to me, and then heard a lock slip out of its bolt. The door opened, and suddenly I was overwhelmed
with light, a huge flood of sunlight that came pouring out into the hallway from a window in the room. It took my eyes several moments to adjust. When I finally managed to make out the person in front of me, the first thing I saw was a gun—a small black pistol aimed directly at my stomach. It was Samuel Farr, all right, but he didn’t look much like the photograph anymore. The robust young man in the picture had turned into a gaunt, bearded character with dark circles under his eyes, and a nervous, unpredictable energy seemed to emanate from his body. It gave him the look of someone who had not slept in a month.

“How do I know you are who you say you are?” he asked.

“Because I say it. Because you’d be stupid not to believe me.”

“I need proof. I won’t let you in unless you give me some proof.”

“All you have to do is listen to me talk. My accent is the same as yours. We come from the same country, the same city. We probably even grew up in the same neighborhood.”

“Anyone can imitate a voice. You’ll have to give me more than that.”

“How about this,” I said, reaching into my coat pocket and pulling out the photograph.

He studied it for ten, twenty seconds, not saying a word, and gradually his whole body seemed to crumple up, to sink back into itself. By the time he looked at me again, I saw that the gun was hanging at his side.

“Good God,” he said softly, almost in a whisper. “Where did you get this?”

“From Bogat. He gave it to me before I left.”

“That’s me,” he said. “That’s what I used to look like.”

“I know.”

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“Not really. You have to remember how long you’ve been here.”

He seemed to drift off into thought for a moment. When he looked at me again, it was as though he did not recognize me anymore.

“Who did you say you were?” He smiled apologetically, and I could see that three or four of his bottom teeth were missing.

“Anna Blume. William Blume’s sister.”

“Blume. As in doom and gloom, I take it.”

“That’s right. Blume as in womb and tomb. You have your pick.”

“I suppose you want to come in, don’t you?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. We have a lot to talk about.”

It was a small room, but not so small that two people could not fit into it. A mattress on the floor, a desk and chair by the window, a wood-burning stove, quantities of papers and books piled against one of the walls, clothes in a cardboard box. It reminded me of a student’s dormitory room—not unlike the one you had at the university the year I came to visit you. The ceiling was low, and it slanted down toward the outer wall so sharply that you could not go to that end of the room without hunching your back. The window along that wall was extraordinary, however—a beautiful, fan-shaped object that took up almost the entire surface. It was made of thick, segmented panes of glass divided by slender lead bars, and it formed a pattern as intricate as a butterfly’s wing. You could literally see for miles through the window—all the way to the Fiddler’s Rampart and beyond.

Sam gestured for me to sit on the bed, then sat down in
the desk chair and swiveled it in my direction. He apologized for pointing the gun at me, but his situation was precarious, he said, and he couldn’t take any chances. He had been living in the library for almost a year now, and word had got around that he had a large stash of money in his room.

“From the looks of things here,” I said, “I never would have guessed you were rich.”

“I don’t use the money on myself. It’s for the book I’m writing. I pay people to come here and talk to me. So much money per interview, depending on how long it takes. One glot for the first hour, a half glot for each additional hour. I’ve done hundreds of them, one story after another. I can’t think of any other way to go about it. The story is so big, you understand, it’s impossible for any one person to tell it.”

Sam had been sent to the city by Bogat, and even now he still wondered what had possessed him to take the assignment. “We all knew that something terrible had happened to your brother,” he said. “There had been no word from him for over six months, and whoever followed him there was bound to wind up in the same pot of ink. Bogat didn’t let that bother him, of course. He called me into his office one morning and said, ‘This is the chance you’ve been waiting for, young man. I’m sending you over there to replace Blume.’ My instructions were clear: write the reports, find out what had happened to William, keep myself alive. Three days later, they gave me a send-off party with champagne and cigars. Bogat spoke a toast, and everyone drank to my health, shook my hand, slapped me on the back. I felt like a guest at my own funeral. But at least I didn’t have three children and a tank full of goldfish waiting for
me at home like Willoughby. Whatever else you might say about him, the chief is a man of feeling. I never held it against him for choosing me as the one to go. The fact was that I probably wanted to go. If not, it would have been simple enough for me to quit. So that’s how it started. I packed my bags, sharpened my pencils, and said my good-byes. That was more than a year and a half ago. Needless to say, I never sent any reports, and I never found William. For the time being, it appears that I’ve kept myself alive. But I wouldn’t want to take any bets on how long that will last.”