Travels in the Scriptorium by Paul Auster

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 the treatment . It’s probably just another word for death.
    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 by 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.
    Talk? What kind of talk?
    The consultation.
    I understand the word, but I have no idea what you mean by it.
    We’re supposed to discuss the story.
    What’s the point? It’s only the beginning of a story, and where I come from, stories are supposed to have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
    I couldn’t agree with you more.
    Who wrote that piece of drivel, by the way? The bastard should be taken outside and shot.
    A man named John Trause. Ever hear of him?
    Trause … Hmmm … Perhaps. He wrote novels, didn’t he? It’s all a bit fuzzy now, but I think I might have read some of them.
    You have. Rest assured that you have.
    So why not give me one of those to read – instead of some half-assed, unfinished story without a title?
    Trause did finish it. The manuscript comes to a hundred and ten pages, and he wrote it in the early fifties, when he was just starting out as a novelist. You might not think much of it, but it’s not bad work for a kid of twenty-three or twenty-four.
    I don’t understand. Why not let me see the rest of it?
    Because it’s part of the treatment, Mr. Blank. We didn’t put all those papers on the desk just to amuse you. They’re here for a purpose.

    Such as?
    To test your reflexes, for one thing.
    My reflexes? What do they have to do with it?
    Mental reflexes. Emotional reflexes.
    And?
    What I want you to do is tell me the rest of the story. Starting at the point where you stopped