What Mr. Blank is still unaware of at this point is that in addition to being able to rock back and forth and turn around in circles, the leather chair is further equipped with a set of four small wheels, which would make it possible for him to journey over to the window shade without having to stand up. Not knowing that other means of propulsion are available to him besides his legs, Mr. Blank therefore stays where he is, sitting in the chair with his back to the desk, looking at the once white but now yellowing window shade, trying to remember his conversation the previous afternoon with the ex-policeman James P. Flood. He casts about in his mind for an image, some hint as to what the man looks like, but rather than conjure forth any clear pictures, his mind is once again overwhelmed by a paralyzing sensation of guilt. Before this fresh bout of torments and terrors can build into a full-blown panic, however, Mr. Blank hears someone rapping on the door, and then the sound of a key entering the lock. Does this mean that Mr. Blank is imprisoned in the room, unable to leave except through the grace and good will of others? Not necessarily. It could be that Mr. Blank has locked the door from within and that the person now trying to enter the room must undo that lock in order to cross the threshold, thus sparing Mr. Blank the trouble of having to stand up and open the door himself.
One way or the other, the door now opens, and in walks a small woman of indeterminate age—anywhere between forty-five and sixty, Mr. Blank thinks, but it is difficult to be certain. Her gray hair is cut short, she is dressed in a pair of dark blue slacks and a light blue cotton blouse, and the first thing she does after entering the room is smile at Mr. Blank. This smile, which seems to combine both tenderness and affection, banishes his fears and puts him in a state of calm equilibrium. He has no idea who she is, but he is nevertheless happy to see her.
Did you sleep well? the woman asks.
I'm not sure, Mr. Blank replies. To be perfectly honest, I can't remember if I slept or not.
That's good. It means the treatment is working.
Rather than comment on this enigmatic pronouncement, Mr. Blank studies the woman for several moments in silence, then asks: Forgive me for being such a fool, but your name wouldn't be Anna, would it?
Once again, the woman gives him a tender and affectionate smile. I'm glad you remembered it, she says. Yesterday, it kept slipping out of your mind.
Suddenly perplexed and agitated, Mr. Blank swivels around in the leather chair until he is facing the desk, then removes the portrait of the young woman from the pile of black-and-white photographs. Before he can turn around again to look at the woman, whose name appears to be Anna, she is standing beside him with her hand poised gently on his right shoulder, looking down at the picture as well.
If your name is Anna, Mr. Blank says, his voice quivering with emotion, then who is this? Her name is Anna, too, isn't it?
Yes, the woman says, studying the portrait closely, as if remembering something with equal but opposite feelings of revulsion and nostalgia. This is Anna. And I'm Anna, too. This is a picture of me.
But, Mr. Blank stammers, but… the girl in the picture is young. And you… you have gray hair.
Time, Mr. Blank, Anna says. You understand the meaning of time, don't you? This is me thirty-five years ago.
Before Mr. Blank has a chance to respond, Anna puts the portrait of her younger self back on the pile of photographs.
Your breakfast is getting cold, she says, and without another word she leaves the room, only to return a moment later, wheeling in a stainless steel cart with a platter of food on it, which she positions alongside the bed.
The meal consists of a glass of orange juice, a slice of buttered toast, two poached eggs in a small white bowl, and a pot of Earl Grey tea. In due course, Anna will help Mr. Blank out of the chair and lead him over to the bed, but first she hands him a glass of water and three pills—one green, one white, and one purple.
What's wrong with me? Mr. Blank asks. Am I sick?
No, not at all, Anna says. The pills are part of the treatment.
I don't feel sick. A little tired and dizzy, maybe, but otherwise nothing too terrible. Considering my age, not too terrible at all.
Swallow the pills, Mr. Blank. Then you can eat your breakfast. I'm sure you're very hungry.
But I don't want the pills, Mr. Blank replies, stubbornly holding his ground. If I'm not sick, I'm not going to swallow these wretched pills.
Rather than snap back at Mr. Blank after his rude and aggressive statement, Anna bends over and kisses him on the forehead. Dear Mr. Blank, she says. I know how you feel, but you promised to take the pills every day. That was the bargain. If you don't take the pills, the treatment won't work.
I promised? says Mr. Blank. How do I know you're telling the truth?
Because it's me, Anna, and I would never lie to you. I love you too much for that.
The mention of the word
Anna smiles, then bends over once more and kisses Mr. Blank squarely on the lips. In that it lasts for a good three seconds, the kiss qualifies as more than just a peck, and even though no tongues are involved, this intimate contact sends a tingle of arousal coursing through Mr. Blank's body. By the time Anna straightens up, he has already begun to swallow the pills.
Now they are sitting beside each other on the edge of the bed. The food cart is in front of them, and as Mr. Blank drinks down his orange juice, takes a bite of his toast and a first sip of the tea, Anna softly rubs his back with her left hand, humming a tune that he is unable to identify but which he knows is familiar to him, or was once familiar to him. Then he begins to attack the poached eggs, piercing one of the yolks with the tip of the spoon and gathering up a modest combination of yellow and white in the hollow of the utensil, but when he tries to lift the spoon toward his mouth, he is bewildered to discover that his hand is shaking. Not just some mild tremor, but a pronounced and convulsive twitching that he is powerless to control. By the time the spoon has traveled six inches from the bowl, the spasm is so extreme that the better part of the yellow-and-white mixture has splattered onto the tray.
Would you like me to feed you? Anna asks.
What's wrong with me?
It's nothing to worry about, she answers, patting his back in an attempt to reassure him. A natural reaction to the pills. It will pass in a few minutes.
That's some treatment you've cooked up for me, Mr. Blank mutters in a self-pitying, sullen tone of voice.
It's all for the best, Anna says. And it's not going to last forever. Believe me.
So Mr. Blank allows Anna to feed him, and as she calmly goes about the business of scooping out portions of the poached eggs, holding the teacup to his lips, and wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, Mr. Blank begins to think that Anna is not a woman so much as an angel, or, if you will, an angel in the form of a woman.
Why are you so kind to me? he asks.
Because I love you, Anna says. It's that simple.
Now that the meal is finished, the time has come for excretions, ablutions, and the putting on of clothes. Anna pushes the cart away from the bed and then extends her hand to Mr. Blank to help him to his feet. To his immense astonishment, he finds himself standing in front of a door, a door that until now has escaped his notice, and attached to the surface of this door is yet another strip of white tape, marked with the word BATHROOM. Mr. Blank wonders how he could have missed it, since it is no more than a few steps from the bed, but, as the reader has already learned, his thoughts have largely been elsewhere, lost in a fogland of ghostlike beings and broken memories as he searches for an answer to the question that haunts him.
Do you have to go? Anna asks.
Go? he replies. Go where?
To the bathroom. Do you need to use the toilet?
Ah. The toilet. Yes. Now that you mention it, I think that would be a good idea.
Do you want me to help you, or can you manage on your own?
I'm not sure. Let me give it a try, and we'll see what happens.
Anna turns the white porcelain knob for him, and the door opens. As Mr. Blank shuffles into the white, window-less room with the black-and-white tile floor, Anna shuts the door behind him, and for several moments Mr.
