Heidi Julavits - The Vanishers

It is possible she was.

Also she wore her long, black hair like Madame Ackermann’s, parted in the middle, the ends narrowing to a point on her back like a damp paintbrush.

I did not tell Alwyn that, while apprenticing with a metalsmith in Paris, she’d sold her work to Dominique Varga, nor did I mention that she’d lost her engagement ring and married my father because he was good medicine. It did not, at this point, strike me as any of Alwyn’s business.

We waited for the elevator to grind up from the basement.

“But with your abilities,” Alwyn said, “how could you refrain?”

“Refrain from what?” I said.

“Knowing things,” she said, returning to her plane fixation. “It’s like you have unlimited access to the Facebook profiles of anyone who ever lived.”

“Parapsychologists never use social networks,” I said. “They’re a boon for psychic attackers. For self-protective purposes, we confine ourselves to e-mail.”

Then I tried to explain what I saw as a matter of respecting, psychically and otherwise, a person’s privacy, in particular my mother’s.

“I don’t go where I’m not invited,” I said.

“She forfeited her rights to privacy when she killed herself without leaving a note.”

“Interesting theory,” I said.

“I’m here to help,” she said as she stepped into the elevator. “By the way, I spoke with your psychic attack counselor last week on the phone.”

“My who?” I said. I held the elevator door open.

“Her name is Marta. Your first meeting with her is tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I said, miffed that Alwyn would have spoken to this counselor before I did.

“Marta said we have to assume that you’ve made yourself vulnerable to Madame Ackermann’s attack.”

“Because I deceived her?” I said.

“Everyone has vulnerabilities, everyone has a weak spot. It’s my job to help you locate those weaknesses. These portals. The opening via which Madame Ackermann got to you .”

“Too bad there’s not an MRI for that kind of thing,” I said.

Alwyn sighed testily.

“I thought you said you were taking this seriously,” she said.

“I am,” I assured her.

“Are you?” she said. “Ask yourself that. Ask yourself right now.”

I removed my hand from the elevator door.

“Your sad life,” she intoned, as the door pinched her from view, “when will you stare it in the face?”

I walked to my room beset by claustrophobia, the slurry of my slippers against the floor tiles echoing off the ceiling in a gossipy swirl. I stopped in front of an unclean window.

You , I said to the reflection. When will you stare your sad life in the face?

I pointed at her. She pointed at me. We stood, accused.

Then we shared a laugh that the acoustically hyperactive hallway magnified and sheared to a sharp bark, the kind that a dog emits when his tail is stepped upon, half blaming outrage, half hurt surprise.

En route to my room, I swung back through the lobby to check my e-mail. Though the Goergen discouraged computers and cellular devices, the concierge kept a terminal in his office that, depending on his mood, he allowed guests to use. Fortunately, he’d expended his daily ire quota on Alwyn; he waved me through.

I checked my e-mail even though, per the TK Ltd. vanishing protocols — which required me to dispose of all vestiges of my former self, including the online vestiges — I’d ditched my old account and opened, via TK Ltd., a secure one for the purposes of communicating with my vanishing coordinator in Cincinnati, and with Colophon, who was in Paris.

Colophon’s plan, while Alwyn and I were at the Goergen, was this: He’d obtain objects that had once belonged to Varga in hopes that I might, once cured, be able to psychometrize them. Psychometry—“mastering the hostile object”—was one of the few areas of Workshop study I’d proven good at. We’d learned, in Professor Penry’s seminar, how a flow of electrons moves between people and the things they touch, creating an electromagnetic imprint, a greasy emotional coating you could read like a piece of microfiche. During the midterm exam, I’d been the only initiate to identify a thimble as belonging to a woman whose finger had once touched the mouth of the Mona Lisa.

But no word from Colophon. The only e-mail I’d received was from aconcernedfriend; Madame Ackermann, despite TK Ltd.’s boasted-about firewalls, had somehow tracked me down.

I stared at her attachment, the tiny canted paperclip visibly throbbing. I considered opening it, even though it was against the discouragements to do so (“Refuse any communication with your attacker while in residence; this includes postcards, e-mails, care packages, etc.”).

I slid her e-mail into the trash.

Then I stared at my empty inbox, a rectangular void that finalized what had been under way for a year — I’d been forgotten by everyone.

Vanishing, in other words, proved a redundancy for me. As far as most people were concerned, I was already gone.

I did, however, feel pretty fucking guilty about vanishing on my father and Blanche; Blanche, over sushi that night in New York, had expressed her clear disapproval of both the act and the films, and my father, well, he’d already endured his fair share of sudden human absences. As I’d tried to explain in my film (which, so far, neither of them had seen — we received an e-mail from TK Ltd. whenever a visitor “checked out” our film), I viewed vanishing as an extreme medical necessity, akin to a form of radiation in which a partial killing takes place in order to promote a healing.

I promised to be in touch when I was better.

I was pretty certain this was not a lie.

Back in my room I lay on my bed, two skinny mattresses bridged by a length of V-shaped foam, and failed to sleep. In addition to my passport and cell phone, I’d surrendered to the concierge all of my pill bottles. Without my Nembutal, night was an ice age of unmoving time spent staring at the wolf, or trying to fall asleep with my lids open, eyeballs drying in the dark. Things glowed in my room that shouldn’t: the light switch in the bathroom; the face of the alarm clock. I closed the bathroom door and shut the clock in the armoire. I heard clicking noises outside my window coming from Gutenberg Square, the little-bird-skull-popping sounds of the paparazzi snapping photos, I thought, until I realized it was my clock, echoing from inside the armoire, louder now that I’d enclosed it in a smaller space.

The first of my daily meetings with Marta, my psychic attack counselor, occurred, as scheduled, one week following my arrival.

After breakfast, Borka offered to escort me to Marta’s office, stashed in a distant wing of the Goergen and impossible to locate the first time without a guide.

Borka said, “Whenever you are late, Marta will ask you, ‘Why were you late?’ To which you should respond, ‘Why do you not want to be found?’ ”

We exited the elevator on the Goergen’s gloomy topmost floor, the one obscured behind the building’s mansard roof, its darkness moderately relieved by the high-up circular windows, each one permitting a beam of light to bore through the moted air. These many dull moons marked our travel, and made me feel, as we scuffed our slippers over the tiles, as though we were midnight skaters following a river of dusty ice.

I asked Borka why a plastic surgery patient such as herself should be meeting with a psychic attack counselor. She explained that due to her surgical history — she’d undergone extensive facial reconstruction decades ago, following a bad car accident — she had been deemed worthy of psychological evaluation.