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Yasuaki Ninomiya Kindle [R Yasuaki Ninomiya Doc [R Yasuaki Ninomiya Doc. Diposting oleh Unknown di If his calcu- lations were correct, he had been there for more than fourteen hours. Within himself, however, it felt as though his stay had lasted three or four hours at most. A bar did not appeal to him tonight—eating in the dark, the press of boozy chatter—although normally he might have welcomed it.

As he crossed th Street, he saw that the Heights Luncheonette was still open and decided to go in. It was a brightly lit yet dreary place, with a large rack of girlie magazines on one wall, an area for stationery supplies, another area for newspapers, several tables for patrons, and a long Formica counter with swivel stools. To his right, ensconced behind the cash register, was the boss, a small balding man with curly hair and a concentration camp number tattooed on his forearm, lording it over his domain of cigarettes, pipes, and cigars.

The place was almost deserted at that hour. At the back table sat two old men in shabby clothes, one very fat and the other very thin, intently studying the racing forms. Two empty coffee cups sat on the table between them. In the foreground, facing the magazine rack, a young student stood with an open maga- zine in his hands, staring at a picture of a naked woman. Quinn sat down at the counter and ordered a hamburger and a coffee.

As the counterman swung into action, he spoke over his shoul- der to Quinn. Anything good to report? Once, when he had been in the luncheonette, they had talked about base- ball, and now, each time Quinn came in, they continued to talk about it. In the winter, the talk was of trades, predictions, mem- ories. During the season, it was always the most recent game. They were both Mets fans, and the hopelessness of that passion had created a bond between them. The counterman shook his head.

Big mothers—all the way to the moon. Pitts- burgh gets men on second and third, one out, so the Mets go to the bullpen for Allen. He walks the next guy to load them up. A has-been. A mean-faced bozo. Better than last year, anyway. Stearns is always getting hurt. And as for the pitching, forget it. You and I could go over to Shea to- morrow and get hired as the top two starters.

A shipment of new notebooks had come in, and the pile was impressive, a beautiful array of blues and greens and reds and yellows. He picked one up and saw that the pages had the narrow lines he preferred. Now that he had embarked on the Stillman case, he felt that a new notebook was in order. It would be helpful to have a separate place to record his thoughts, his observations, and his questions. In that way, perhaps, things might not get out of control.

He looked through the pile, trying to decide which one to pick. For reasons that were never made clear to him, he sud- denly felt an irresistible urge for a particular red notebook at the bottom. He pulled it out and examined it, gingerly fanning the pages with his thumb. He was at a loss to explain to himself why he found it so appealing. It was a standard eight-and- a-half-by-eleven notebook with one hundred pages. Al- most embarrassed by the intensity of his feelings, Quinn tucked the red notebook under his arm, walked over to the cash regis- ter, and bought it.

Back in his apartment a quarter of an hour later, Quinn re- moved the photograph of Stillman and the check from his jacket pocket and placed them carefully on his desk. He cleared the debris from the surface—dead matches, cigarette butts, ed- dies of ash, spent ink cartridges, a few coins, ticket stubs, doo- dles, a dirty handkerchief—and put the red notebook in the center.

Then he drew the shades in the room, took off all his clothes, and sat down at the desk. He had never done this be- fore, but it somehow seemed appropriate to be naked at this moment. He sat there for twenty or thirty seconds, trying not to move, trying not to do anything but breathe. Then he opened the red notebook. He picked up his pen and wrote his initials, D. He stopped to consider this fact for a moment but then dismissed it as irrelevant.

He turned the page. For sev- eral moments he studied its blankness, wondering if he was not a bloody fool. Im- possible to know whether the face tomorrow will resemble it. It is certain, however, that this is not the face of a madman.

Or is this not a legitimate statement? To my eyes, at least, it seems benign, if not downright pleasant. A hint of tenderness around the mouth even. More than likely blue eyes, with a tendency to water. Thin hair even then, so perhaps gone now, and what remains gray, or even white.

Little Peter. Is it necessary for me to imagine it, or can I accept it on faith? The darkness. I am reluctant. Nor do I think I even want to understand it. To what end? This is not a story, after all.

It is a fact, something happening in the world, and I am supposed to do a job, one little thing, and I have said yes to it. If all goes well, it should even be quite simple. I have not been hired to understand—merely to act. This is something new. To keep it in mind, at all costs. And yet, what is it that Dupin says in Poe? Which is probably even worse. As for Virginia, I am in a quandary.

Not just the kiss, which might be explained by any number of reasons; not what Peter said about her, which is unimportant. Her marriage? The complete incongruity of it. Or somehow working in collaboration with Stillman? That would change everything. But, at the same time, it makes no sense.

For why would she have hired me? To have a witness to her apparent good intentions? But that seems too com- plicated. And yet: why do I feel she is not to be trusted? Thinking for these past few minutes that I have seen it before. Perhaps years ago in the neighborhood— before the time of his arrest. To begin with that, I think. Assuming I must. Back in the old days, eighteen, twenty years ago, when I had no money and friends would give me things to wear.

And the strange sense I would have of climbing into his skin. That is probably a start. And then, most important of all: to remember who I am. To remember who I am supposed to be. I do not think this is a game. On the other hand, nothing is clear. For example: who are you? And if you think you know, why do you keep lying about it? I have no answer. All I can say is this: listen to me.

My name is Paul Auster. The bright May morning lurked outside like a temptation, a call to wander aimlessly in the air, but Quinn fought it off. He turned the chair around, position- ing himself with his back to the window, and opened the book. There was, however, an opposite point of view.

If some saw the Indians as living in prelapsarian innocence, there were oth- ers who judged them to be savage beasts, devils in the form of men. The discovery of cannibals in the Caribbean did nothing to assuage this opinion. For if you do not consider the man before you to be human, there are few restraints of conscience on your behavior towards him. It was not until , with the papal bull of Paul III, that the Indians were declared to be true men possessing souls.

The second part of the book began with a new examination of the fall. Relying heavily on Milton and his account in Par- adise Lost—as representing the orthodox Puritan position— Stillman claimed that it was only after the fall that human life as we know it came into being. For if there was no evil in the Garden, neither was there any good. In Paradise Lost, for example, each key word has two meanings—one before the fall and one after the fall. To illustrate his point, Stillman isolated several of those words—sinister, serpentine, delicious— and showed how their prelapsarian use was free of moral con- notations, whereas their use after the fall was shaded, ambiguous, informed by a knowledge of evil.

In that state of innocence, his tongue had gone straight to the quick of the world. His words had not been merely appended to the things he saw, they had revealed their essences, had literally brought them to life.

A thing and its name were interchangeable. After the fall, this was no longer true. Names became detached from things; words devolved into a collection of arbitrary signs; language had been severed from God. The story of the Garden, therefore, records not only the fall of man, but the fall of language. Later in the Book of Genesis there is another story about lan- guage. The story takes on special meaning when its placement in the book is considered: chapter eleven of Genesis, verses one through nine.

This is the very last incident of prehistory in the Bible. Af- ter that, the Old Testament is exclusively a chronicle of the He- brews.

In other words, the Tower of Babel stands as the last image before the true beginning of the world. Another reading, however, saw the Tower as a challenge against God. Bricks became more precious than people. Women laborers did not even stop to give birth to their children; they secured the newborn in their aprons and went right on working.

Appar- ently, there were three different groups involved in the con- struction: those who wanted to dwell in heaven, those who wanted to wage war against God, and those who wanted to worship idols.

For if all men were descended from Noah and his sons, how was it possible to account for the vast differ- ences among cultures? God at- tacked it in two ways in order to convince man that the de- struction was a divine punishment and not the result of chance. Still, the part left standing was so high that a palm tree seen from the top of it appeared no larger than a grasshopper. It was also said that a person could walk for three days in the shadow of the Tower without ever leaving it.

Finally—and Stillman dwelled upon this at great length—whoever looked upon the ruins of the Tower was believed to forget everything he knew. What all this had to do with the New World Quinn could not say. This was news to Quinn, for he seemed to remember reading somewhere that the blind Milton had dictated his work to one of his daughters.

Having met his hero one evening at a small gathering, he was invited to pay a call the following week. That led to further calls, until eventually Milton began to en- trust Dark with various small tasks: taking dictation, guiding him through the streets of London, reading to him from the works of the ancients.

Then Milton died, and Dark was disconsolate. He arrived in Boston in the summer of Be that as it may, there was no public mention of Dark until , when his name was entered in the Boston marriage reg- istry as having taken one Lucy Fitts as his bride.

Two years later, he was listed as heading a small Puritan congregation on the outskirts of the city. Several children were born to the cou- ple, but all of them died in infancy. A son John, however, born in , survived. But in the boy was reported to have fallen accidentally from a second-story window and perished. Henry Dark would have passed into the obscurity of early American life if not for one thing: the publication of a pamphlet in entitled The New Babel. According to Stillman, this lit- tle work of sixty-four pages was the most visionary account of the new continent that had been written up to that time.

If Dark had not died so soon after its appearance, its effect would no doubt have been greater. After years of diligent research, he had concluded that this was the only copy still in existence. The New Babel, written in bold, Miltonic prose, presented the case for the building of paradise in America. Unlike the other writers on the subject, Dark did not assume paradise to be a place that could be discovered. There were no maps that could lead a man to it, no instruments of navigation that could guide a man to its shores.

Rather, its existence was immanent within man himself: the idea of a beyond he might someday create in the here and now. If the fall of man also entailed a fall of lan- guage, was it not logical to assume that it would be possible to undo the fall, to reverse its effects by undoing the fall of lan- guage, by striving to recreate the language that was spoken in Eden? If man could learn to speak this original language of in- nocence, did it not follow that he would thereby recover a state of innocence within himself?

We had only to look at the exam- ple of Christ, Dark argued, to understand that this was so. And did not Christ speak this prelapsarian language? And, be- cause of Christ, did the fall not have a happy outcome, was it not a felix culpa, as doctrine instructs?

Therefore, Dark con- tended, it would indeed be possible for man to speak the origi- nal language of innocence and to recover, whole and unbroken, the truth within himself.

Turning to the Babel story, Dark then elaborated his plan and announced his vision of things to come. For the city of Babel—or Babylon—was situated in Mesopotamia, far east of the land of the Hebrews. If Babel lay to the west of anything, it was Eden, the original site of mankind. America was the last step in the process. At that moment it would again be possible for the whole earth to be of one language and one speech. And if that were to happen, paradise could not be far behind.

At that point, the foundations would have been laid for the real work that was to follow: the building of the new Babel. History would be written in reverse. What had fallen would be raised up; what had been broken would be made whole. Once completed, the Tower would be large enough to hold every inhabitant of the New World. There would be a room for each person, and once he entered that room, he would forget everything he knew.

Quinn let out a little sigh and closed the book. The reading room was empty. He leaned forward, put his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. He tried to conjure up an image of Henry Dark, but nothing came to him. Then, losing track of his thoughts and where they had been leading him, he suddenly remembered that was the year that Still- man had locked up his son.

He opened the red notebook and set it squarely on his lap. Just as he was about to write in it, however, he decided that he had had enough.

Lighting a cigarette at the bottom of the stairs, he left the library and walked out into the May afternoon. As he emerged from the subway and entered the great hall, he saw by the clock that it was just past four. Making his way through the press of oncoming bodies, Quinn made a tour of the num- bered gates, looking for hidden staircases, unmarked exits, dark alcoves.

He concluded that a man determined to disappear could do so without much trouble. He would have to hope that Stillman had not been warned that he would be there. If that were the case, and Stillman managed to elude him, it would mean that Virginia Stillman was responsible. There was no one else. It solaced him to know that he had an alternate plan if things went awry. If Stillman did not show up, Quinn would go straight to 69th Street and confront Virginia Stillman with what he knew.

As he wandered through the station, he reminded himself of who he was supposed to be. The effect of being Paul Auster, he had begun to learn, was not altogether unpleasant.

Although he still had the same body, the same mind, the same thoughts, he felt as though he had somehow been taken out of himself, as if he no longer had to walk around with the burden of his own consciousness.

By a simple trick of the intelligence, a deft little twist of naming, he felt incomparably lighter and freer. At the same time, he knew it was all an illusion.

But there was a cer- tain comfort in that. For imagining himself as Auster had become synonymous in his mind with doing good in the world.

He wandered through the station, then, as if inside the body of Paul Auster, waiting for Stillman to appear. He looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the great hall and studied the fresco of constellations.

Quinn had never been able to grasp the connection between the constellations and their names. As a boy he had spent many hours under the night sky trying to tally the clusters of pinprick lights with the shapes of bears, bulls, archers, and water carriers.

But nothing had ever come of it, and he had felt stupid, as though there were a blind spot in the center of his brain. He wondered if the young Auster had been any better at it than he was. He found it painful to think of that now, and he tried to suppress the pic- tures that were forming in his head.

Someone tapped him on the arm, and as Quinn wheeled to meet the assault, he saw a short, silent man holding out a green and red ballpoint pen to him. Pay any price. Thank you for your help. Quinn reached into his pocket and gave the man a dollar.

Quinn decided he would be less vulnerable in another spot and removed himself to the waiting room. He had made it to the third or fourth paragraph when the man turned slowly toward him, gave him a vicious stare, and jerked the paper out of view.

After that, a strange thing happened. Quinn turned his atten- tion to the young woman on his right, to see if there was any reading material in that direction. Quinn guessed her age at around twenty. There were several pimples on her left cheek, obscured by a pinkish smear of pancake makeup, and a wad of chewing gum was crackling in her mouth.

She was, however, reading a book, a paperback with a lurid cover, and Quinn leaned ever so slightly to his right to catch a glimpse of the title. He did not like the girl sitting next to him, and it offended him that she should be casually skimming the pages that had cost him so much effort. His impulse was to tear the book out of her hands and run across the station with it. He looked at her face again, trying to hear the words she was sounding out in her head, watching her eyes as they darted back and forth across the page.

Before he could get up and leave, the words were already out of his mouth. But he talks too much. The girl was beyond hope. Still, it was painful, and he struggled desperately to swallow his pride.

Rather than punch the girl in the face, he abruptly stood up from his seat and walked away. The train was due to arrive on time, and from his vantage in the cen- ter of the doorway, Quinn judged that his chances of seeing Stillman were good.

He took out the photograph from his pocket and studied it again, paying special attention to the eyes. He remembered having read somewhere that the eyes were the one feature of the face that never changed. From childhood to old age they remained the same, and a man with the head to see it could theoretically look into the eyes of a boy in a photo- graph and recognize the same person as an old man.

Quinn had his doubts, but this was all he had to go on, his only bridge to the present. The train pulled into the station, and Quinn felt the noise of it shoot through his body: a random, hectic din that seemed to join with his pulse, pumping his blood in raucous spurts. He told himself to stay calm. But that did little good. In spite of what he had been expecting of himself at this moment, he was ex- cited. Soon the people were surging around him. There were men and women, children and old people, teenagers and babies, rich people and poor people, black men and white women, white men and black women, Orientals and Arabs, men in brown and gray and blue and green, women in red and white and yellow and pink, chil- dren in sneakers, children in shoes, children in cowboy boots, fat people and thin people, tall people and short people, each one different from all the others, each one irreducibly himself.

Quinn watched them all, anchored to his spot, as if his whole being had been exiled to his eyes. Each time an elderly man ap- proached, he braced himself for it to be Stillman.

He watched. Im- mobile among the moving crowd, he stood there and watched. The resemblance to the photograph seemed unmistakable. No, he had not gone bald, as Quinn had thought he would. His hair was white, and it lay on his head uncombed, sticking up here and there in tufts. He was tall, thin, without question past sixty, somewhat stooped. The expression on his face seemed placid, midway between a daze and thoughtful- ness.

He did not look at the things around him, nor did they seem to interest him. He had one piece of luggage, a once beau- tiful but now battered leather suitcase with a strap around it. Once or twice as he walked up the ramp he put the suitcase down and rested for a moment.

He seemed to be moving with effort, a bit thrown by the crowd, uncertain whether to keep up with it or to let the others pass him by. Quinn backed off several feet, positioning himself for a quick move to the left or right, depending on what happened. At the same time, he wanted to be far enough away so that Still- man would not feel he was being followed.

As Stillman reached the threshold of the station, he put his bag down once again and paused. Directly behind Stillman, heaving into view just inches behind his right shoulder, another man stopped, took a lighter out of his pocket, and lit a ciga- rette.

The second Still- man had a prosperous air about him. He was dressed in an ex- pensive blue suit; his shoes were shined; his white hair was combed; and in his eyes there was the shrewd look of a man of the world.

Quinn froze. There was nothing he could do now that would not be a mistake. Whatever choice he made—and he had to make a choice—would be arbitrary, a submission to chance. Uncertainty would haunt him to the end.

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