Nicholson Baker - The Fermata

I snapped my fingers. “I just did it,” I said.

“What did you do?” She looked quickly down at her dress and back at me. “I had absolutely no sense of anything happening.”

“I didn’t do that much. I was chastened by your reaction, so I took it easy. I refilled your water glass.”

Joyce looked at her water glass suspiciously, “It was already that high.”

“No, really, it was about a quarter full,” I said.

“I’m sure it was that high. I’ve been drinking mostly wine.”

“Should we debate water levels?” I said. “Or should you simply tell me what you want me to do, what will prove to you that I really can stop time, so that I can Snap out right now and do it?”

“You could … “Joyce looked around the room for inspiration. I saw her eyes alight on the waiter. “I don’t know. Anything. What would you want to do?”

I leaned forward. “See those two men? I could switch their ties. But I don’t really want to do that. I hate practical jokes. It’s hard enough to tie my own tie. The Fold is sexual for me.” I looked pensive for a moment, then brightened. “I could take off your bra and put it in your briefcase in the coatroom. I’d be happy to do that. Would that convince you?”

“Yes, it probably would,” said Joyce. “But hold off.”

I said, “If you could snap your fingers right now and stop time, suspend all cause and effect, what would you do?” I leaned forward again and began speaking in a soft coaxing urgent voice. “There’s the waiter there. I saw you check him out. He’s got a nice butt, right? Think about it. This entire room is filled with cock. There is cock in every direction. Prosperous cock, arrogant cock, dumb cock, smart cock, old-regime cock, new-age cock. What would you do?”

“At the moment, if I could stop time, I’d stop time and use the facilities. Excuse me.”

While Joyce was gone I stared at the flower in the bud vase and felt up the table under the tablecloth to discover what sort of surface it had. It had a rough surface. I didn’t think; I just waited. Our salads came.

Eventually Joyce returned. “Hi.” She swept her hand over the back of her dress as she sat down, so that she wouldn’t make wrinkles. “You didn’t follow me in there, snapping your fingers, did you?”

“No, I was out here the whole time.”

Joyce’s mood seemed to have shifted slightly. “I was thinking that this power you say you have would open up some interesting possibilities,” she said. “At the bank, for instance, I could think of lots of things you could find out.”

I told her I wasn’t all that wild about white-collar crime.

“Or,” she continued, holding up her hand, “it would be very handy for working mothers. Or forget working mothers. It would be very handy for me. I could take a whole day to catch up. A silent paradise. No phones. I need it bad. I’d fill four tapes.”

“That’s true,” I said. “It’s funny, though. The idea of having time to catch up sounds so luscious. But in reality I’ve found that big chunks of raw time don’t help that much. Parkinson’s Law becomes the dominant force. Parkinson’s Law and loneliness. You have to time the time-outs, and mix them in with life — that’s were the art comes in.”

“Still,” said Joyce, “I’d love to know what it was like, to wander around Boston when it was totally still. Nothing moving but me. Everyone like a statue. Are you really serious that you can do this?”

I nodded.

She put her napkin on the table and sat up straight in her chair with her hands in her lap. “Tell me what color bra I’m wearing. Don’t take it off. Just tell me the color and the make.”

“Frankly I feel a little weird now doing it,” I said, flapping my arms to signal uncertainty and moral confusion.

“Go ahead!” she said. “I’m letting you. I’m still not sure I believe you anyway. You have to demonstrate you’re not lying to me.”

I snapped my fingers and went around to Joyce’s side of the table and, after some groping, tore the small label off her bra. I also kissed her lightly on the mouth, so that I could tell her I had. I took my chair and turned everything back on. “You’re wearing a red bra,” I reported. “It is”—I peered at the label—” an ‘Olga Christina.’ It says, ‘Gentle machine wash warm, wash with like colors, no bleach, line dry, no iron.’ ”

“It’s my favorite bra.”

“All I did was unzip the back of your dress and reach in. I want you to know that I didn’t really grope at your breasts or do anything in any way proactive.” I held out the bra label between my two fingers. She took it and set it down beside her bread plate. “I did also kiss you briefly,” I added.

“Really? Where?”

“On the lips.”

She made an mmm-expression with her mouth to see if she could detect any residual sensations.

“No after-tingle?” I said, feigning incredulity.

“Nothing,” said Joyce. “How did it go, the kiss?”

I said that it had gone very well.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said.

By the time we had finished our salads there was a definite feeling of amity in the air.

“You know,” I said, “while I was snapped out just now,tearing the label off your bra, I thought of something. I bet there is a way you could experience the Fold-cleft with me.”

“I doubt it,” she said.

“Well, this is what I’m thinking, anyway. The Fermata seems to know that I am physically one individual, and it exempts me from the general freeze. But what if we confuse it? What if my naked penis is in your vagina when I snap my fingers?”

Joyce laughed a this-is-all-just-a-little-too-much laugh, but I could see that the notion wasn’t inconceivable to her.

I went on. “I think there’s a good chance, if we did that, that the Fermata would read us both as one single entity. We would have to be in a real state of union, though. I’d have to be way in there, and your legs would have to be really locked around me. We’d have to be holding each other extra tight, and probably we’d have to be kissing, too. We’d probably have to be in love. Our tongues would have to be chasing each other around, and your hands would have to be gripping my thrusting buttcheeks—”

Joyce raised her hands. “Okay, I got it, I got the general idea.”

“I’m not saying that it’s a guaranteed sure thing, but I do think it’s worth a try,” I said excitedly. “Are you with me?”

“When would this happen?” She had the same sideways smile she’d had when I first asked her out.

“We could set a date, if you like. Five minutes from now?”

“That seems soon,” she said.

“I’ve lost all conception of what ‘soon’ means. Don’t you want to lose all conception of what ‘soon’ means, too?”

“I do, kind of.” She lowered her eyes.

Suddenly I remembered birth control. “Shoot, that’s right. A condom is out, because there has to be total contact.” I made popping sounds with my lips, thinking. “You’re not on the pill, are you?”

“There’s a man I see sometimes. So I still am technically, yes.”

“You are? Oh— great! Perfect.” I waved my hands. “Forget we talked about that. Let’s talk about something else for a while.” I asked her to tell me more about her botanical drawing class. She described the difficulties of rendering bark. She talked about her teacher. There was a nice moment when she finished saying something, and took a bite of bread, and noticed that I was looking at her with an odd, gleeful expression, and her face filled with friendly curiosity. It was time. “May I?” I said.

“May you what?”

“Snap my fingers?”