Travels in the Scriptorium by Paul Auster Page A

filled with corpses. He no longer knows what to think. What if Land is responsible after all? What if the rumor of an insurrection is no more than a blind to cover up a far more sinister undertaking: a quiet slaughter of the Primitives that would enable the government to open their territory to white settlement, to expand the reach of the Confederation all the way to the shores of the western ocean? And yet, how can such a thing be accomplished with such a paucity of troops? One hundred men to wipe out tens of thousands? It doesn’t seem possible, and yet if Land has nothing to do with it, then the only other explanation is that the Gangi were killed by another tribe, that the Primitives are at war among themselves.

Mr. Blank is about to continue, but before he can get another word out of his mouth, he and the doctor are interrupted by a knocking at the door. Engrossed as he is in elaborating the story, content as he is to be spinning out his version of far-flung, imaginary events, Mr. Blank instantly understands that this is the moment he’s been waiting for: the mystery of the door is about to be solved at last. Once the knock is heard, Farr turns his head in the direction of the sound. Come in, he says, and just like that the door opens, and in walks a woman pushing a stainless steel cart, perhaps the same one Anna used earlier, perhaps one that is identical to it. For once, Mr. Blank has been paying attention, and to the best of his knowledge he heard no sound of a lock being opened – nothing that resembled the sound of a bolt or a latch or a key – which would suggest that the door was unlocked to begin with, unlocked all along. Or so Mr. Blank surmises, beginning to rejoice at the thought of his liberty to come and go as he wants, but a moment later he understands that things are possibly not quite as simple as that. It could be that Dr. Farr forgot to lock the door when he entered. Or, even more likely, that he didn’t bother to lock it, knowing he would have no trouble overpowering Mr. Blank if his prisoner tried to escape. Yes, the old man says to himself, that’s probably the answer. And he, who is nothing if not pessimistic about his prospects for the future, once again resigns himself to living in a state of constant uncertainty.
    Hello, Sam, the woman says. Sorry to barge in on you like this, but it’s time for Mr. Blank’s lunch.
    Hi, Sophie, Farr says, simultaneously looking down at his watch and standing up from the bed. I hadn’t realized it was so late.
    What’s happening? Mr. Blank asks, pounding the arm of his chair and speaking in a petulant tone of voice. I want to go on telling the story.
    We’ve run out of time, Farr says. The consultation is over for today.
    But I haven’t finished! the old man shouts. I haven’t come to the end!
    I know, Farr replies, but we’re working on a tight schedule around here, and it can’t be helped. We’ll go on with the story tomorrow.
    Tomorrow? Mr. Blank roars, both incredulous and confused. What are you talking about? Tomorrow I won’t remember a word I said today. You know that. Even I know that, and I don’t know a blasted thing.
    Farr walks over to Mr. Blank and pats him on the shoulder, a classic gesture of appeasement for one skilled in the subtle art of bedside manner. All right, he says, I’ll see what I can do. I have to get permission first, but if you want me to come back this evening, I can probably work it out. Okay?
    Okay, Mr. Blank mumbles, feeling somewhat mollified by the gentleness and concern in Farr’s voice.
    Well, I’m off then, the doctor announces. See you later.
    Without another word, he waves good-bye to Mr. Blank and the woman called Sophie, walks to the door, opens it, steps across the threshold, and shuts the door behind him. Mr. Blank hears the click of the latch, but nothing more. No clatter of a bolt, no turning of a key, and he wonders now if the door isn’t simply one of those contraptions that locks automatically