Travels in the Scriptorium (14 page)

Graf returns to find the entire population of the capital up in arms, clamoring for an invasion of the Alien Territories.He understands now how cruelly he’s been tricked. War on this scale could potentially destroy the Confederation, and it turns out that he, and he alone, was the match that ignited this deadly fire. He goes to Joubert and demands an explanation. Now that things have worked out so well, Joubert is all too happy to give it to him. Then he offers Graf a promotion with a large increase in salary, but Graf counters with an offer of his own: I resign, he says, and then he marches out of the room, slamming the door behind him. That evening, in the darkness of his empty house, he picks up a loaded revolver and fires a bullet through his skull. And that’s it. End of story.
Finità, la commedia
.

Mr. Blank has been talking steadily for nearly twenty minutes, and he is tired now, and not only from the exertions of his vocal cords, for his throat was irritated to begin with (brought on by the upchuck binge in the bathroom just minutes before), and he delivers the final sentences of his tale with a noticeable rasp in his voice. He closes his eyes, forgetting that such an action is likely to bring back the procession of figment beings blundering through the wilderness, the mob of the damned, the faceless ones who will eventually surround him and tear his body apart, but this time luck spares Mr. Blank from the demons, and when he closes his eyes he is once again in the past, sitting in a wooden chair of some kind – an Adirondack chair he believes it is called – on a lawn somewhere in the country, some remote and rustic spot he cannot identify, with green grass all around him and bluish mountains in the distance, and the weather is warm, warm in the way summer is warm, with a cloudless sky above and the sun pouring down on his skin, and there is Mr. Blank, many years ago now it would seem, back in the days of his early manhood, sitting in the Adirondack chair and holding a small child in his arms, a one-year-old girl child dressed in a white T-shirt and a white diaper, and Mr. Blank is looking into the eyes of the little girl and talking to her, what words he cannot say, for this excursion into the past is unfolding in silence, and as Mr. Blank talks to the little girl, she is looking back at him with an intent and serious expression in her eyes, and he wonders now, lying on the bed with his eyes closed, if this small person isn’t Anna Blume at the beginning of her life, his beloved Anna Blume, and if it isn’t Anna, whether the child might not be his daughter, but what daughter, he asks himself, what daughter and what is her name, and if he is the father of a child, where is the mother and what is her name, he asks himself, and then he makes a mental note to inquire about these matters the next time a person enters the room, to find out if he has a home somewhere with a wife and children, or once had a wife, or once had a home, or if this room is not the place where he has always lived, but Mr. Blank is about to forget this mental note and therefore will forget to ask these questions, for he is extremely tired now, and the image of himself in the Adirondack chair with the young child in his arms has just vanished, and Mr. Blank has fallen asleep.

Because of the camera, which has gone on taking one picture per second throughout this report, we know for certain that Mr. Blank’s nap lasts for exactly twenty-seven minutes and twelve seconds. He might have gone on sleeping much longer than that, but a man has now entered the room, and he is tapping Mr. Blank on the shoulder in an effort to wake him. When the old man opens his eyes, he feels entirely refreshed by his brief sojourn in the Land of Nod, and he sits up immediately, alert and ready for the encounter, with no trace of grogginess clouding his mind.

The visitor appears to be in his late fifties or early sixties, and like Farr before him, he is dressed in a pair of blue jeans, but whereas Farr was wearing a red shirt, this man’s shirt is black, and while Farr came into the room empty-handed, the man in the black shirt is carrying a thick bundle of files and folders in his arms. His face is deeply familiar to Mr. Blank, but as with so many of the faces he has seen today, whether in photographs or in the flesh, he is at a loss to attach a name to it.

Are you Fogg? he asks. Marco Fogg?

The visitor smiles and shakes his head. No, he says, I’m afraid not. Why would you think I’m Fogg?

I don’t know, but when I woke up just now I suddenly remembered that Fogg stopped by around this time yesterday. A minor miracle, actually, now that I think about it. Remembering, I mean. But Fogg came in. I’m certain of that. For afternoon tea. We played cards for a while. We talked. And he told me a number of funny jokes.

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 Flood, 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.