months that she finally accepted my proposal of marriage. I knew that in her eyes I was no match for Land. I was neither as handsome nor as brilliant as he was, and it took some time before she understood that my steadiness of character and fierce devotion to her were no less important qualities on which to build a lifelong union. Much as I admired Land, I was also aware of his flaws. There had always been something wild and obstreperous about him, a headstrong assurance in his superiority to others, and despite his charm and persuasiveness, that inborn power to draw attention to himself wherever he happened to be, one also sensed an incurable vanity lurking just below the surface. His marriage to Hortense Chatterton proved to be an unhappy one. He was unfaithful to her almost from the start, and when she died in childbirth four years later, he recovered quickly from his loss. He went through all the rituals of mourning and public sorrow, but at bottom I felt he was more relieved than brokenhearted. We saw quite a bit of him after that, much more than had been the case in the early years of our marriage. To his credit, Land became deeply attached to our little daughter, Marta, always bringing presents when he visited the house and showering her with such affection that she came to regard him as a heroic figure, the greatest man who walked the earth. He behaved with utmost decorum whenever he was among us, and yet who could fault me if I sometimes questioned whether the fires that had once burned in my wife's soul for him had been fully extinguished? Nothing untoward ever happened—no words or glances between them that could have aroused my jealousy—but in the aftermath of the cholera epidemic that had supposedly killed them both, what was I to make of the fact that Land was now reported to be alive and that in spite of my assiduous efforts to learn something about Beatrice's fate, I hadn't uncovered a single witness who had seen her in the capital during the scourge? If not for my disastrous run- in with Giles McNaughton, which had been set off by ugly innuendos concerning my wife, it seemed doubtful that I would have tormented myself with such dark suspicions on my way to Ultima. But what if Beatrice and Marta had run off with Land while I was traveling through the Independent Communities of Tierra Blanca Province? It seemed impossible, but as Joubert had said to me the night before my departure, nothing was impossible, and of all the people in the world, I was the one who should know that best.
The wheels of the carnage turned, and by the time I'd reached the outskirts of Wallingham, the midway point of the journey, I understood that I was approaching a twofold horror. If Land had betrayed the Confederation, my instructions from the minister were to put him under arrest and transport him back to the capital in chains. That thought was gruesome enough, but if my friend had betrayed me by stealing my wife and daughter, then I was planning to kill him. That much was certain, no matter what the consequences were. May God damn me for thinking it, but for Ernesto's sake and my own, I prayed that Beatrice was already dead.
Mr. Blank tosses the typescript onto the desk, snorting with dissatisfaction and contempt, furious that he has been compelled to read a story that has no ending, an unfinished work that has barely even begun, a mere bloody fragment. What garbage, he says out loud, and then, swiveling the chair around by a hundred and eighty degrees, he wheels himself over to the bathroom door. He is thirsty. With no beverages on hand, the only solution is to pour himself a glass of water from the bathroom sink. He stands up from the chair, opens the door, and shuffles forward to do just that, all the while regretting having wasted so much time on that misbegotten excuse of a story. He drinks one glass of water, then another, leaning his left hand on the sink to steady his balance as he gazes forlornly at the soiled clothes in the tub. Now that he happens to be in the bathroom, Mr. Blank wonders if he shouldn't take another shot at peeing, just to play it safe. Worried that he might fall again if he stays on his feet too long, he lets his pajama bottoms drop to his ankles and sits down on the toilet. Just like a woman, he says to himself, suddenly amused by the thought of how different his life would have been if he hadn't been born a man. After his recent accident, his bladder has little to say for itself, but eventually he manages to dribble forth a few measly squirts. He pulls up the pajama bottoms as he climbs to his feet, flushes, rinses his hands at the sink, dries those same hands with a towel, then turns around and opens the door—whereupon he sees a man standing in the room. Another lost opportunity, Mr. Blank says to himself, realizing that the noise of the flushing toilet must have drowned out the sound of the stranger's entrance, thus leaving the question of whether the door is locked from the outside or not unanswered.
Mr. Blank sits down in the chair and does an abrupt half-turn in order to take a look at the new arrival, a tall man in his mid-thirties dressed in blue jeans and a red button-down shirt open at the collar. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a gaunt face that looks as if it hasn't cracked a smile in years. No sooner does Mr. Blank make this observation, however, than the man smiles at him and says: Hello, Mr. Blank. How are you feeling today?
Do I know you? Mr. Blank asks.
Didn't you look at the picture? the man replies.
What picture?
The photograph on your desk. The twelfth one in from the top of the pile. Remember?
Oh, that. Yes. I think so. I was supposed to look at it, wasn't I?
And?
I forgot. I was too busy reading that dumb story.
No problem, the man says, turning around and walking toward the desk, where he picks up the photographs and searches through the pile until he comes to the picture in question. Then, putting the other photographs back on the desk, he walks over to Mr. Blank and hands him the portrait. You see, Mr. Blank? the man says. There I am.
You must be the doctor, then, Mr. Blank says. Samuel… Samuel something.
Farr.
That's right. Samuel Farr. I remember now. You have something to do with Anna, don't you?
I did. But that was a long time ago.
Holding the picture firmly in his two hands, Mr. Blank lifts it up until it is directly in front of his face, then studies it for a good twenty seconds. Farr, looking very much as he does now, is sitting in a garden somewhere dressed in a white doctor's coat with a cigarette burning between the second and third fingers of his left hand.
I don't get it, Mr. Blank says, suddenly besieged by a new attack of anguish that burns like a hot coal in his chest and tightens his stomach into the shape of a fist.
What's wrong? Farr asks. It's a good likeness, don't you think?
A perfect likeness. You might be a year or two older now, but the man in the picture is definitely you.
Is that a problem?
It's just that you're so young, Mr. Blank says in a tremulous voice, doing all he can to fight back the tears that are forming in his eyes. Anna is young in her picture, too. But she told me it was taken more than thirty years ago. She's not a girl anymore. Her hair is gray, her husband is dead, and time is turning her into an old woman. But not you, Farr. You were with her. You were in that terrible country I sent her to, but that was more than thirty years ago, and you haven't changed.
Farr hesitates, clearly uncertain about how to answer Mr. Blank. He sits down on the edge of the bed, spreads his palms out on his knees, and looks down at the floor, inadvertently settling into the same position the old man was discovered in at the beginning of this report. A long moment of silence follows. At last he says, speaking in a low voice: I'm not allowed to talk about it.
Mr. Blank looks at him in horror. You're telling me you're dead, he cries out. That's it, isn't it? You didn't make it. Anna lived, but you didn't.
Farr lifts his head and smiles. Do I look dead, Mr. Blank? he asks. We all go through our rough moments, of course, but I'm just as alive as you are, believe me.
Well, who's to say if I'm alive or not? Mr. Blank says, staring grimly at Farr. Maybe I'm dead, too. The way things have been going for me this morning, I wouldn't be a bit surprised. Talk about
You don't remember now, Farr says, standing up from the bed and taking the photograph out of Mr. Blank's hands, but the whole thing was your idea. We're just doing what you asked us to do.
Bullshit. I want to see a lawyer. He'll get me out of here. I have my rights, you know.
That can be arranged, Farr answers, carrying the photograph back to the desk, where he reinserts it into the pile. If you like, I'll have someone stop in to see you this afternoon.
Good, Mr. Blank mumbles, somewhat thrown by Farr's solicitous and accommodating manner. That's more like it.
Glancing at his watch, Farr returns from the desk and once again sits down on the bed facing Mr. Blank, who is still in his chair beside the bathroom door. It's getting late, the young man says. We have to begin our talk.
