Travels in the Scriptorium by Paul Auster Page B

the instant you close it.
    All the while, the woman called Sophie has been busy wheeling the stainless steel cart alongside the bed and transferring the various dishes of Mr. Blank’s lunch from the bottom shelf of the cart to the upper surface. Mr. Blank notes that there are four dishes in all and that each plate is hidden by a round metal cover with a hole in the center. Seeing those covers, he is suddenly reminded of room-service meals in hotels, which in turn provokes him to speculate on how many nights he has spent in hotels over the course of his life. Too many to count, he hears a voice within him say, a voice that is not his own, at least not a voice he recognizes as his own, and yet because it speaks with such authority and conviction, he acknowledges that it must be telling the truth. If that is the case, he thinks, then he has done a good deal of traveling in his time, moving around from place to place in cars, trains, and airplanes, and yes, he further says to himself, airplanes have taken him all over the world, to many countries on several continents, and no doubt those trips had something to do with the missions he sent all those people on, the poor people who suffered so much because of him, and that is surely why he is confined to this room now, no longer permitted to travel anywhere, stuck inside these four walls because he is being punished for the grave harm he has inflicted on others.
    This fleeting reverie is cut off in mid-flow by the sound of the woman’s voice. Are you ready for your lunch? she asks, and as he lifts his head to take a look at her, Mr. Blank realizes that he can no longer remember her name. She is somewhere in her late forties or early fifties, and although he finds her face both delicate and attractive, her body is too full and chunky to allow her to be classified as an ideal woman. For the record, it should be noted that her clothes are identical to the ones worn by Anna earlier in the day.
    Where’s my Anna? Mr. Blank asks. I thought she was the one who takes care of me.
    She does, the woman says. But she had some last-minute errands to do, and she asked me to fill in for her.
    That’s terrible, Mr. Blank says, in a mournful tone of voice. Nothing against you, of course, whoever you might be, but I’ve been waiting for hours to see her again. That woman is everything to me. I can’t live without her.
    I know that, the woman says. We all know that. But– and here she gives him a friendly little smile – what can I do about it? I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.
    Alas, Mr. Blank sighs. I’m sure you mean well, but I’m not going to pretend I’m not disappointed.
    You don’t have to pretend. You have the right to feel what you feel, Mr. Blank. It’s not your fault.
    As long as we’re stuck with each other, as you put it, I suppose you should tell me who you are.
    Sophie.
    Ah. That’s right. Sophie … A very pretty name. And it begins with the letter S , doesn’t it?
    It would seem so.
    Think back, Sophie. Are you the little girl I kissed at the pond when I was ten years old? We had just finished ice skating, and then we sat down on a tree stump, and I kissed you. Unfortunately, you didn’t kiss me back. You laughed.
    It couldn’t have been me. When you were ten, I hadn’t even been born.
    Am I that old?

    Not old, exactly. But a lot older than I am.
    All right. If you’re not that Sophie, which Sophie are you?
    Instead of answering him, the Sophie who was not the girl Mr. Blank kissed when he was ten walks over to the desk, retrieves one of the photographs from the pile, and holds it up in the air. That’s me, she says. Me as I was about twenty-five years ago.
    Come closer, Mr. Blank says. You’re too far away.
    Several seconds later, Mr. Blank is holding the picture in his hands. It turns out to be the photograph he lingered over so attentively earlier in the day – the one of the young woman who has just opened the door of what appears to be a New York