Oracle Night by Paul Auster

wrong?
    No questions. I’m the man who was struck by lightning, remember? I’m dead, and whoever I used to be makes no difference anymore. The only thing that counts is now. And right now I have to earn some money.

    The people who run that outfit are a pack of knaves and fools. Forget that idea, New York. If you’re really desperate, though, I might have something for you at the Bureau. You need a strong back and a good head for numbers. If you meet those qualifications, I’ll hire you. At a decent wage. I might look like a pauper, but I’ve got bags of money, more money than I know what to do with.
    The Bureau of Historical Preservation. Your business.
    Not a business. It’s more in the nature of a museum, a private archive.
    My back is strong, and I know how to add and subtract. What kind of work are you talking about?
    I’m reorganizing my system. There’s time, and there’s space. Those are the only two possibilities. The current setup is geographic, spatial. Now I want to switch things around and make them chronological. It’s a better way, and I’m sorry I didn’t think of it sooner. There’s some heavy lifting involved, and my body isn’t up to doing it alone. I need a helper.
    And if I said I’m willing to be that helper, when would I start?
    Right now if you like. Just give me a chance to button up my trousers, and I’ll walk you over there. Then you can decide if you’re interested or not.
     
     
    I broke off then for a bite to eat (some crackers and a tin of sardines) and washed down the snack with a couple of glasses of water. It was pushing five, and although Grace had said she would be back by six or six-thirty, I wanted to squeeze in a little more time with the blue notebook before she returned, to keep on going until the last possible minute. On the way back to my study at the end of the hall, I slipped into the bathroom to have a quick pee and splash some water on my face – feeling invigorated, ready to plunge on with the story. Just as I left the bathroom, however, the front door of the apartment opened, and in stepped Grace, looking wan and exhausted. Her cousin Lily was supposed to have accompanied her to Brooklyn (to have dinner with us and spend the night on the foldout sofa in the living room, then leave early in the morning for New Haven, where she was a second-year architecture student at Yale), but Grace was alone, and before I could ask her what was wrong, she gave me a weak smile, rushed down the hall in my direction, made an abrupt left, and entered the bathroom. The moment she got there, she fell to her knees and vomited into the toilet.
    After the deluge ended, I helped her to her feet and guided her into the bedroom. She looked terribly pale, and with my right arm around her shoulder and my left arm around her waist, I could feel her whole body trembling – as if small currents of electricity were passing through it. Maybe it was the Chinese food from last night, she said, but I told her I didn’t think so, since I’d eaten the same dishes she had and my stomach was fine. You’re probably coming down with something, I said. Yes, Grace answered, you’re probably right, it must be one of those bugs – using that odd little word we all fall back on to describe the invisible contagions that float through the city and worm their way into people’s bloodstreams and inner organs. But I’m never sick, Grace added, even as she passively let me take off her clothes and put her into bed. I touched her forehead, which felt neither hot nor cold, and then I fished the thermometer out of the bedside table drawer and stuck it in her mouth. Her temperature turned out to be normal. That’s encouraging, I said. If you get a good night’s sleep, you’ll probably feel better in the morning. To which Grace replied: I have to be better. There’s an important meeting at work tomorrow, and I can’t miss it.
    I made her a cup of weak tea and a slice of dry toast, and for the next hour or