The Music of Chance by Paul Auster

knee in training camp and that was the end of him.”
    “And what about the wife? Did she croak on you or something?”
    “Not exactly. She’s probably still alive somewhere.”
    “A disappearing act, huh?”
    “I guess you could call it that.”
    “You mean she walked out on you and didn’t take the kid? What kind of bimbo would do a thing like that?”
    “I’ve often asked that question myself. At least she left me a note.”
    “That was nice of her.”
    “Yeah, it filled me with immense gratitude. The only trouble was that she put it on the kitchen counter. And since she hadn’t bothered to clean up after breakfast, the counter was wet. By the time I got home that evening, the thing was soaked through. It’s hard to read a letter when the ink is blurred. She even mentioned the name of the guy she ran off with, but I couldn’t make it out. Gorman or Corman, I think it was, but I still don’t know which.”
    “I hope she was good-looking anyway. There had to be something to make you want to marry her.”
    “Oh, she was good-looking all right. The first time I saw Thérèse, I thought she was about the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I couldn’t keep my hands off her.”
    “A good piece of ass.”
    “That’s one way of putting it. It just took me a while to realize that all her brains were down there, too.”
    “It’s an old story, pal. You let your dick do your thinking for you, and that’s what happens. Still, if it was my wife, I would have dragged her back and pounded some sense into her.”
    “There wouldn’t have been any point. Besides, I had my work to do. I couldn’t just take off and go looking for her.”
    “Work? You mean you have a job?”
    “Not anymore. I quit about a year ago.”
    “What did you do?”
    “I put out fires.”
    “A troubleshooter, huh? Company calls you in when there’s a problem, and then you go around the office looking for holes to plug. That’s top-level management. You must have made some good money.”
    “No, I’m talking about real fires. The kind you put out with hoses—the old hook-and-ladder routine. Axes, burning buildings,people jumping out of windows. The stuff you read about in the paper.”
    “You’re pulling my leg.”
    “It’s true. I was with the Boston fire department for close to seven years.”
    “You sound pretty proud of yourself.”
    “I suppose I am. I was good at what I did.”
    “If you liked it so much, then why did you quit?”
    “I got lucky. All of a sudden, my ship came in.”
    “You win the Irish Sweepstakes or something?”
    “It was more like the graduation present you told me about.”
    “But bigger.”
    “One would hope so.”
    “And now? What are you up to now?”
    “Right now I’m sitting in this car with you, little man, hoping you’re going to come through for me tonight.”
    “A regular soldier of fortune.”
    “That’s it. I’m just following my nose and waiting to see what turns up.”
    “Welcome to the club.”
    “Club? What club is that?”
    “The International Brotherhood of Lost Dogs. What else? We’re letting you in as a certified, card-carrying member. Serial number zero zero zero zero.”
    “I thought that was your number.”
    “It is. But it’s your number, too. That’s one of the beauties of the Brotherhood. Everyone who joins gets the same number.”
    By the time they came to Flemington, the thunderstorm had passed. Sunlight broke through the dispersing clouds, and the wet land shimmered with a sudden, almost supernatural clarity. The trees stood out more sharply against the sky, and even the shadowsseemed to cut more deeply into the ground, as if their dark, intricate outlines had been etched with the precision of scalpels. In spite of the storm, Nashe had made good time, and they were running somewhat ahead of schedule. They decided to stop for a cup of coffee, and once they were in town, they took further advantage of the occasion to empty their bladders and buy a carton