The Man Without a Shadow by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

yes—‘Margot.’”
    â€œYour friend.”
    â€œYes, my friend—‘Mar-got.’”
    Conscientiously, E.H. pronounces her name Mar-go . So quick at mimicry is E.H., one would think his skill a kind of memory.
    â€œI think I knew you in—was it school? Grade school?”
    â€œYes. Gladwyne.”
    We were close friends through school. Then you went to Amherst, and I went to Ann Arbor.
    We were in love, but—something happened to part us . . .
    (Wouldn’t Eli realize, Margot Sharpe is much younger than he is? At least seventeen years?)
    (Yet: E.H. is a perpetual thirty-seven and Margot Sharpe is now thirty-four. If E.H. were capable of thinking in such terms he would be thinking that, magically, the young woman psychologist has caught up with him in age.)
    â€œI’ve been looking forward to today since—last Wednesday. We’re doing such important work, Eli . . .”
    â€œYes. Yes we are, Mar- go .”
    It is very exciting, their proximity. Their privacy. Margot can feel the man’s breath on her face as he leans over her.
    E.H. seems to be inhaling Margot. She wants to think that her scent has become familiar to him. (She has conducted olfactory memory tests with him of her own invention indicating thatyes, E.H. is more likely to remember smells than other sensory cues; his memory for smells of decades ago is more or less undiminished.)
    E.H. is taller than Margot by at least five inches, so that she is forced to look up at him and this is pleasurable to her, as to him.
    Is E.H. nearly forty-seven now? How quickly the years have passed! (For E.H. no time at all has passed.)
    His hairline is receding from his high forehead, and his russet-brown hair is fading to a beautiful shade of pewter-gray, yet E.H. remains youthful, straight-backed. His forehead is lightly creased with bewilderment or worry that quickly eases away when he smiles at a visitor.
    â€œEli, how have you been?”
    â€œVery good, thank you. And you?”
    The question is genuine. E.H. is anxious to know .
    All of the world is clues to the amnesiac. Like a box of jigsaw puzzle pieces that has been overturned, scattered. Through some effort—(a superhuman effort beyond the capacity of any normal individual)—these countless pieces might be fitted together again into a coherent and illuminating whole.
    Is E.H. “very good”? Margot knows that the poor man had bronchitis for several weeks that winter. Terrible fits of coughing, that made testing impossible at times. Not only were short-term memories slipping out of the amnesiac’s brain as through a large-holed colander but the severe coughing seemed to exacerbate loss of memory.
    (Margot has been concerned about E.H.’s health in recent years. She is assured that the amnesiac receives physical examinations at the Institute, that his blood, blood pressure, and other vital signs are routinely tested. In her own case, Margot often forgets to schedule dental appointments, gynecological appointments, eyeexaminations—and how much more likely to neglect himself is a man with memory deficits.)
    E.H. has forgotten the bronchitis and its discomforts. E.H. has forgotten his original, devastating illness. E.H. quickly forgets all physical distress, maladies. He may be susceptible to moods—but E.H. quickly forgets all moods.
    He has lost weight, Margot estimates about five to eight pounds. His face is the face of a handsome ascetic. He retains the alert and agile air of an ex-athlete but he has become an ex-athlete who anticipates pain.
    Today he is wearing neatly pressed khakis, an English-looking striped shirt, and a dark green cashmere sweater. His socks are a very dark purple patterned in small yellow checks. All of his clothing is purchased at expensive men’s stores like J. Press, Ralph Lauren, Armani. Margot has seen these clothes before, she thinks, but not for some time. (Who assists E.H. with his wardrobe?