And yet, the pictures did exist—not in the streets where they had been drawn, but in Quinn’s red notebook. He wondered if Stillman had sat down each night in his room and plotted his course for the following day or whether he had improvised as he had gone along. It was impossible to know. He also wondered what purpose this writing served in Stillman’s mind. Was it merely some sort of note to himself, or was it intended as a message to others? At the very least, Quinn concluded, it meant that Stillman had not forgotten Henry Dark.
Quinn did not want to panic. In an effort to restrain himself, he tried to imagine things in the worst possible light. By seeing the worst, perhaps it would not be as bad as he thought. He broke it down as follows. First: Stillman was indeed plotting something against Peter. Response: that had been the premise in any case. Second: Stillman had known he would be followed, had known his movements would be recorded, had known his message would be deciphered. Response: that did not change the essential fact—that Peter had to be protected. Third: Stillman was far more dangerous than previously imagined. Response: that did not mean he could get away with it.
This helped somewhat. But the letters continued to horrify Quinn. The whole thing was so oblique, so fiendish in its circumlocutions, that he did not want to accept it. Then doubts came, as if on command, filling his head with mocking, singsong voices. He had imagined the whole thing. The letters were not letters at all. He had seen them only because he had wanted to see them. And even if the diagrams did form letters, it was only a fluke. Stillman had nothing to do with it. It was all an accident, a hoax he had perpetrated on himself.
He decided to go to bed, slept fitfully, woke up, wrote in the red notebook for half an hour, went back to bed. His last thought before he went to sleep was that he probably had two more days, since Stillman had not yet completed his message. The last two letters remained—the “E” and the “L.” Quinn’s mind dispersed. He arrived in a neverland of fragments, a place of wordless things and thingless words. Then, struggling through his torpor one last time, he told himself that El was the ancient Hebrew for God.
In his dream, which he later forgot, he found himself in the town dump of his childhood, sifting through a mountain of rubbish.
9
The first meeting with Stillman took place in Riverside Park. It was mid-afternoon, a Saturday of bicycles, dog-walkers, and children. Stillman was sitting alone on a bench, staring out at nothing in particular, the little red notebook on his lap. There was light everywhere, an immense light that seemed to radiate outward from each thing the eye caught hold of, and overhead, in the branches of the trees, a breeze continued to blow, shaking the leaves with a passionate hissing, a rising and falling that breathed on as steadily as surf.
Quinn had planned his moves carefully. Pretending not to notice Stillman, he sat down on the bench beside him, folded his arms across his chest, and stared out in the same direction as the old man. Neither of them spoke. By his later calculations, Quinn estimated that this went on for fifteen or twenty minutes. Then, without warning, he turned his head toward the old man and looked at him point-blank, stubbornly fixing his eyes on the wrinkled profile. Quinn concentrated all his strength in his eyes, as if they could begin to burn a hole in Stillman’s skull. This stare went on for five minutes.
At last Stillman turned to him. In a surprisingly gentle tenor voice he said, “I’m sorry, but it won’t be possible for me to talk to you.”
“I haven’t said anything,” said Quinn.
“That’s true,” said Stillman. “But you must understand that I’m not in the habit of talking to strangers.”
“I repeat,” said Quinn, “that I haven’t said anything.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time. But aren’t you interested in knowing why?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Well put. I can see you’re a man of sense.”
Quinn shrugged, refusing to respond. His whole being now exuded indifference.
Stillman smiled brightly at this, leaned toward Quinn, and said in a conspiratorial voice, “I think we’re going to get along.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Quinn after a long pause.
Stillman laughed—a brief, booming “haw”—and then continued. “It’s not that I dislike strangers per se. It’s just that I prefer not to speak to anyone who does not introduce himself. In order to begin, I must have a name.”
“But once a man gives you his name, he’s no longer a stranger.”
“Exactly. That’s why I never talk to strangers.”
Quinn had been prepared for this and knew how to answer. He was not going to let himself be caught. Since he was technically Paul Auster, that was the name he had to protect. Anything else, even the truth, would be an invention, a mask to hide behind and keep him safe.
“In that case,” he said, “I’m happy to oblige you. My name is Quinn.”
“Ah,” said Stillman reflectively, nodding his head. “Quinn.”
“Yes, Quinn. Q-U-I-N-N.”
“I see. Yes, yes, I see. Quinn. Hmmm. Yes. Very interesting. Quinn. A most resonant word. Rhymes with twin, does it not?”
“That’s right. Twin.”
“And sin, too, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not.”
“And also in—one n—or inn—two. Isn’t that so?”
“Exactly.”
“Hmmm. Very interesting. I see many possibilities for this word, this Quinn, this … quintessence … of quiddity. Quick, for example. And quill. And quack. And quirk. Hmmm. Rhymes with grin. Not to speak of kin. Hmmm. Very interesting. And win. And fin. And din. And gin. And pin. And tin. And bin. Hmmm. Even rhymes with djinn. Hmmm. And if you say it right, with been. Hmmm. Yes, very interesting. I like your name enormously, Mr. Quinn. It flies off in so many little directions at once.”
“Yes, I’ve often noticed that myself.”
“Most people don’t pay attention to such things. They think of words as stones, as great unmovable objects with no life, as monads that never change.”
“Stones can change. They can be worn away by wind or water. They can erode. They can be crushed. You can turn them into shards, or gravel, or dust.”
“Exactly. I could tell you were a man of sense right away, Mr. Quinn. If you only knew how many people have misunderstood me. My work has suffered because of it. Suffered terribly.”
“Your work?”
“Yes, my work. My projects, my investigations, my experiments.”
“Ah.”
“Yes. But in spite of all the setbacks, I have never really been daunted. At present, for example, I am engaged in one of the most important things I have ever done. If all goes well, I believe I will hold the key to a series of major discoveries.”
“The key?”
“Yes, the key. A thing that opens locked doors.”
“Ah.”
“Of course, for the time being I’m merely collecting data, gathering evidence so to speak. Then I will have to coordinate my findings. It’s highly demanding work. You wouldn’t believe how hard—especially for a man of my age.”
“I can imagine.”
“That’s right. There’s so much to do, and so little time to do it. Every morning I get up at dawn. I have to be outside in all kinds of weather, constantly on the move, forever on my feet, going from one place to the next. It wears me out, you can be sure of that.”
“But it’s worth it.”
“Anything for the truth. No sacrifice is too great.”
“Indeed.”
“You see, no one has understood what I have understood. I’m the first. I’m the only one. It puts a great burden of responsibility on me.”
“The world on your shoulders.”
“Yes, so to speak. The world, or what is left of it.”
“I hadn’t realized it was as bad as that.”
“It’s that bad. Maybe even worse.”
“Ah.”
“You see, the world is in fragments, sir.
And it’s my job to put it back together again.”
“You’ve taken on quite a bit.”
“I realize that. But I’m merely looking for the principle. That’s well within the scope of one man. If I can lay the foundation, other hands can do the work of restoration itself. The important thing is the premise, the theoretical first step. Unfortunately, there is no one else who can do this.”
“Have you made much progress?”
“Enormous strides. In fact, I feel now that I’m on the verge of a significant breakthrough.”
“I’m reassured to hear it.”
“It’s a comforting thought, yes. And it’s all because of my cleverness, the dazzling clarity of my mind.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“You see, I’ve understood the need to limit myself. To work within a terrain small enough to make all results conclusive.”
“The premise of the premise, so to speak.”
“That’s it, exactly. The principle of the principle, the method of operation. You see, the world is in fragments, sir. Not only have we lost our sense of purpose, we have lost the language whereby we can speak of it. These are no doubt spiritual matters, but they have their analogue in the material world. My brilliant stroke has been to confine myself to physical things, to the immediate and tangible. My motives are lofty, but my work now takes place in the realm of the everyday. That’s why I’m so often misunderstood. But no matter. I’ve learned to shrug these things off.”
“An admirable response.”
“The only response. The only one worthy of a man of my stature. You see, I am in the process of inventing a new language. With work such as that to do, I can’t be bothered by the stupidity of others. In any case, it’s all part of the disease I’m trying to cure.”
“A new language?”
“Yes. A language that will at last say what we have to say. For our words no longer correspond to the world. When things were whole, we felt confident that our words could express them. But little by little these things have broken apart, shattered, collapsed into chaos. And yet our words have remained the same. They have not adapted themselves to the new reality. Hence, every time we try to speak of what we see, we speak falsely, distorting the very thing we are trying to represent. It’s made a mess of everything. But words, as you yourself understand, are capable of change. The problem is how to demonstrate this. That is why I now work with the simplest means possible—so simple that even a child can grasp what I am saying. Consider a word that refers to a thing—’umbrella,’ for example. When I say the word ‘umbrella,’ you see the object in your mind. You see a kind of stick, with collapsible metal spokes on top that form an armature for a waterproof material which, when opened, will protect you from the rain. This last detail is important. Not only is an umbrella a thing, it is a thing that performs a function—in other words, expresses the will of man. When you stop to think of it, every object is similar to the umbrella, in that it serves a function. A pencil is for writing, a shoe is for wearing, a car is for driving. Now, my question is this. What happens when a thing no longer performs its function? Is it still the thing, or has it become something else? When you rip the cloth off the umbrella, is the umbrella still an umbrella? You open the spokes, put them over your head, walk out into the rain, and you get drenched. Is it possible to go on calling this object an umbrella? In general, people do. At the very limit, they will say the umbrella is broken. To me this is a serious error, the source of all our troubles. Because it can no longer perform its function, the umbrella has ceased to be an umbrella. It might resemble an umbrella, it might once have been an umbrella, but now it has changed into something else. The word, however, has remained the same. Therefore, it can no longer express the thing. It is imprecise; it is false; it hides the thing it is supposed to reveal. And if we cannot even name a common, everyday object that we hold in our hands, how can we expect to speak of the things that truly concern us? Unless we can begin to embody the notion of change in the words we use, we will continue to be lost.”
“And your work?”
“My work is very simple. I have come to New York because it is the most forlorn of places, the most abject. The brokenness is everywhere, the disarray is universal. You have only to open your eyes to see it. The broken people, the broken things, the broken thoughts. The whole city is a junk heap. It suits my purpose admirably. I find the streets an endless source of material, an inexhaustible storehouse of shattered things. Each day I go out with my bag and collect objects that seem worthy of investigation. My samples now number in the hundreds—from the chipped to the smashed, from the dented to the squashed, from the pulverized to the putrid.”
“What do you do with these things?”
“I give them names.”
“Names?”
“I invent new words that will correspond to the things.”
“Ah. Now I see. But how do you decide? How do you know if you’ve found the right word?”
“I never make a mistake. It’s a function of my genius.”
“Could you give me an example?”
“Of one of my words?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible. It’s my secret, you understand. Once I’ve published my book, you and the rest of the world will know. But for now I have to keep it to myself.”
“Classified information.”
“That’s right. Top secret.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You shouldn’t be too disappointed. It won’t be long now before I’ve put my findings in order. Then great things will begin to happen. It will be the most important event in the history of mankind.”
The second meeting took place a little past nine o’clock the following morning. It was Sunday, and Stillman had emerged from the hotel an hour later than usual. He walked the two blocks to his customary breakfast place, the Mayflower Cafe, and sat down in a corner booth at the back. Quinn, growing bolder now, followed the old man into the restaurant and sat down in the same booth, directly opposite him. For a minute or two Stillman seemed not to notice his presence. Then, looking up from his menu, he studied Quinn’s face in an abstract sort of way. He apparently did not recognize him from the day before.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” said Quinn. “My name is Henry Dark.”
“Ah,” Stillman nodded. “A man who begins with the essential. I like that.”
“I’m not one to beat around the bush,” said Quinn.
“The bush? What bush might that be?”
“The burning bush, of course.”
“Ah, yes. The burning bush. Of course.” Stillman looked at Quinn’s face—a little more carefully now, but also with what seemed to be a certain confusion. “I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I don’t remember your name. I recall that you gave it to me not long ago, but now it seems to be gone.”
“Henry Dark,” said Quinn.
“So it is. Yes, now it comes back to me. Henry Dark.” Stillman paused for a long moment and then shook his head. “Unfortunately, that’s not possible, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because there is no Henry Dark.”
“Well, perhaps I’m another Henry Dark. As opposed to the one who doesn’t exist.”
“Hmmm. Yes, I see your point. It is true that two people sometimes have the same name. It’s quite possible that your name is Henry Dark. But you’re not the Henry Dark.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
Stillman laughed, as if at a good joke. “Not exactly,” he said. “You see, there never was any such person as Henry Dark. I made him up. He’s an invention.”
“No,” said Quinn, with feigned disbelief.
“Yes. He’s a character in a book I once wrote. A figment.”
“I find that hard to accept.”
“So did everyone else. I fooled them all.”
“Amazing. Why in the world did you do it?”
“I ne
eded him, you see. I had certain ideas at the time that were too dangerous and controversial. So I pretended they had come from someone else. It was a way of protecting myself.”
“How did you decide on the name Henry Dark?”
“It’s a good name, don’t you think? I like it very much. Full of mystery, and at the same time quite proper. It suited my purpose well. And besides, it had a secret meaning.”
“The allusion to darkness?”
“No, no. Nothing so obvious. It was the initials, H.D. That was very important.”
“How so?”