Clearly, the writer had lost contact with reality, no matter how desperately that reality had struggled to get his attention. And that poor woman, still unidentified, that X had pushed into the path of a motored vehicle (he hadn’t quite had it in him to tell X just how faulty his memory was) — she was proof enough of his illness. In the end, the fantasy had been too strong. And what a fantasy it was! A place where people flew and “made movies.” Disney, tee-vee,New York City,New Orleans,Chicago. It was all very convincing and, within limits, it made sense — to X. But as he well knew, writers were a shifty lot — not to be trusted— and there were far too many lunatics on the streets already. How would X have coped with freedom anyhow? With his twin fantasy of literary success and a happy marriage revealed as a lie? (And there were X’s last words as the door had closed: “All writers write. All writers edit. All writers have a little darkness in them.”)
They had found no record of him in the city upon his arrest, so he had probably come from abroad — from the Southern Isles, perhaps — carrying his pathetic book, no doubt self-published by “Spectra,” a vanity operation by the sound of it. He knew those sounds himself from his modest dabbling in the written arts. In fact, he reflected, the only real benefit of the session, between the previous transcripts and the conversation itself, had been to his fiction; he now had some very interesting elements with which to compose a fantasy of his own. Why, he could already see that the report on this session would be a kind of fiction itself, as he had long since concluded that no delusion could ever truly be understood. He might even tell the story in first
When he reached the place where he had plucked the rose, he took it from his buttonhole and stuck its stem back in the crack. He regretted having picked it. But even if he had not, it would have been doomed to a short, brutish life in the darkness.
Out on the street the rain had stopped, although the moist rain smell lingered, and the noontime calls to prayer from the Religious Quarter echoed through the narrow streets. He could almost taste the wonderful savoriness of the hot sausage sold by the sidewalk vendors. After lunch, he would take in some entertainment. The Manzikert Opera Theater had decided to do a Voss Bender revival this season, and with any luck he could still catch the matinee and be home to the wife before dinner. With this thought uppermost in his mind, he stepped out onto the street and was soon lost to view amongst the lunchtime crowds.
APPENDIX
A LETTER FROM DR. V TO DR. SIMPKIN
Voss Bender Memorial Mental Institute
1314 Albumuth BoulevardAmbergris I13-24
Doctor William Simpkin
Central Records Office
Psychiatric Studies Division c/o Trillian Memorial Hospital
8l8l Sallowskull Avenue
Ambergris Ml4-5l8
Dear Doctor Simpkin:
As requested, enclosed please find all personal effects left behind by X, save for his pen, a blank notebook, and that tattered paperback copy of City of Saints & Madmen he insisted on clasping to his bosom like a talisman. I have kept these items for my personal collection. (You may recall that I have an extensive selection of souvenirs from my many years here. If you should ever again visit our humble outpost of insanity, I will be happy to give you a guided tour as I have recently begun to catalogue my collection in anticipation of the day when we will receive funding for its proper display. Each item comes complete with an exhibit card explaining the history of the item. If I may say so, the organization and presentation are exquisite. I am lacking only a display case and monies for maintenance.) Most of X’s possessions consisted of various writings, which either originated with him or which he acquired during that brief period when he walked the streets of Ambergris a free man. As you requested, I have carefully read through all of these writings, despite the time it has taken away from those other of my patients who have had the courtesy to remain in my care. I now present my findings to you: 1. X’s Notes. The notes typed up on the following pages came from crumpled sheets of paper found in the wastepaper basket. They consist of a series of reminders, observations, word sketches, drawings (X
has had a lot of free time to perfect his doodling), and a short account of one of X’s dreams that I like to call “The Machine.“ The notes seem self-explanatory. “The Machine,“ on the other hand, demonstrates an extreme paranoia directed toward the gray caps. One must learn not to read too much into nightmares- my own nightmares usually concern having to close down vital services due to lack of funds-but I would hazard the guess that X suffers from anxiety about his studies. This would be consistent with his case history.
2. The Release of Belacqua. Although an attached note attributed this manuscript to Sirin, a secretary at his office assured us via telephone (ours being broken, I walked five blocks to a colleague’s house to use his) that Sirin did not write it. Therefore, we must conclude that X wrote it himself. Nothing in the story sheds light on X’s whereabouts, however. If anything, the protagonist is as puzzled about X as we are.
The cold little reference to Janice Shriek puts the lie to X’s protestations that he felt remorse for his actions. Throughout the story, X communicates to the reader “between the lines“ in a rather pathetic manner. Such self- consciousness has clearly corrupted his writing. (Consulting my abridged version of Bender’s Trillian, I find no mention of a “Belacqua,“ although this is a point of curiosity only.) 3. King Squid by Frederick Madnok. At first, I assumed that this slim pamphlet had been privately printed by X under a pseudonym. However, further inquiries revealed that Madnok does indeed exist and that for a few months he hawked this pamphlet, among other self- published oddities, on the corner ofAlbumuth Boulevard andBeak Drive. His present whereabouts are unknown. Although our records could be incorrect, it appears he was never a patient here. (You may wish to use the impressive resources at your disposal to verify this fact, as many of our records have been damaged by water seepage. In many cases, your copies should now be considered the originals.) Given that King Squid did not originate with X and there are no margin notes from him, I cannot extrapolate much about X from it.
On a surface level, however, one might assume that X envied the transformative qualities of Madnok’s prose. Perhaps he saw Madnok as a kindred spirit. Again, we lack the personnel to perform the kind of analysis necessary to make such a third-party document “speak“ to us about X’s condition.
4. The Hoegbotton Family History. This document, although fascinating to me personally, seems at best something X may have read as background for enjoyment of item (5), below. It was found stuffed between his mattress and bed frame. There is a possibility it belonged to the former occupant of the cell, a Mr. M. Kodfan.
5. The Cage. I also checked with Sirin’s secretary about this manuscript, given X’s scrawled note of attribution. (I wish I had discovered said attribution before having returned to the asylum; as it was, I had to turn right back around to use my colleague’s telephone.) This time, she confirmed that Sirin had indeed written the story. She found it remarkable that X had galleys, given that the story is due to be released next month as part of Sirin’s new collection. She was most anxious that we return the manuscript to Sirin.
I told her this was impossible until I had secured your approval. As for any connection between Sirin and X, it hardly seems credible-more the case of an “admirer and an admiral,“ as they say. While X’s possession of the story confirms his obsession with the gray caps, I’m not sure that The Cage is otherwise of much use to us. Sirin’s characterization of Hoegbotton struck me as perverse. But, then, I am not a fan of Sirin’s fiction, although I did much admire his book of verse, “The Metamorphosis of Butterflies.“
6. In the Hours After Death. X tore this story by Nicholas Sporlender out of last month’s Burning Leaves, the creative journal enjoyed by so many of our patrons. I can confirm that the pages did indeed originate with our library copy. Several other pages had been ripped from the journal, but none of these pages remained in X’s room. I want to discuss the absent pages first because they perplex me. In comparing a complete copy of Burning Leaves with the torn one, I found that X may have absconded with an advertisement for women’s underthings, an article on
