Paul Theroux - Blinding Light

Where it was quieter, Steadman could tell that the man beside him was calm and inquisitive, confidently moving him against a wall as Steadman prodded the floor with his stick, almost losing his balance as the man nudged him.

“I’ve got a few questions.”

“Yes?”

“I really did read your book, but I want to talk to you about your blindness. Like, do you feel it gives you an edge?”

Though the tone was neutral, the question seemed hostile, especially now, jammed against the wall, beset by strangers in the stuffy room. He had been thrust into the party and was expected to perform. He had not had a drink, his eyesight had flickered, dark to light and back again, from one world to the other, the simpler world of sight to the tortured one of this new version of his blindness that was unfamiliar and overwhelming. Not just beset by strangers. He felt he was among enemies: the sour air in the room, the mutters, told him this, but he knew no more.

Reaching as though to restore his balance, he was reminded of the toppling figure of Blind Pew in the cartoon, arms spread in a gesture of appeal: Help me!

“No edge at all,” he said. “It’s a struggle.” He sensed skepticism in the way the man exhaled. “Please excuse me.”

“Some guy has a Web site claiming that you’ve been taking a drug.”

The word “drug,” uttered for the first time by a stranger, filled Steadman with such dread he was too numb to show alarm.

“Maybe a performance-enhancing drug. Like I say, maybe to get an edge.”

Steadman said, “Do you think that anyone would choose to be blind?”

“Right. That’s what I was wondering.”

Steadman had never felt blinder or less in control. He had swallowed a dose of the drug in the hotel room just before setting off for the party, and here he was, baffled, seeing nothing except when, in an occasional burst of ugly light, he had gotten a glimpse of the room and winced.

“I find that an insulting suggestion,” Steadman said, and felt for the wall.

“I’m sorry you think so,” the man said. “Hey, I was just asking.”

“Excuse me”—he recognized Axelrod’s voice. “I was wondering where you were.”

“This man was accusing me of faking.”

“I didn’t say you were faking. I was just trying to verify the rumors that you’re on some kind of drug.”

“Back off, asshole!” Axelrod said, shrieking at the man. “How dare you say that! This man has lost his eyesight. He has just published a great book. And you’re a guest here. How about showing a little respect?”

As Axelrod cowed the man with his fury, Steadman thought, Why didn’t I say that? Why wasn’t I that angry?

“I am so sorry,” Axelrod said. “You look tired. Maybe you should go. People will understand.”

Steadman left the party, and later in his hotel room he was so rattled he could not think straight. He reasoned that Manfred had put the word out, to expose him. And it was likely, as he had suspected, that the woman in Washington had come to his room to check up on him, to look for the drug, to see if he was really blind, to relay the information to Manfred.

He would go on denying it — there was no proof. But there was a greater problem, and it horrified him. He seemed to have no control over his blindness now. The drug was at times irrelevant. That night he lay in a sweat, waiting for the usual glimmer of light, the dull glow that told him the drug was weakening in him. But there was nothing, only the throb of New York, the city howl vibrating in his guts. He wondered if, after all the months of taking the drug, he had saturated himself with it, that his flesh was drenched.

He slept. He woke. He could not tell whether it was day or night, and he was terrified.

SO HE REMAINED in New York, and each morning in his hotel room he opened his eyes hoping that he was waking from the nightmare, that something had changed, that he was able to see. He would have been grateful for the merest glimmer of light. Each morning he was desolated. There was nothing but the city’s roar, like the endless slosh of muddy toppling surf, and though he could not understand it, there was something in that noise that always mocked him. He went to the window and was deafened by the traffic strangling the dust-thickened air. New York was an ocean and he was trapped at the bottom of it, suffocating at this black depth, dense with sound, struggling against the suck of the tide. He had lost even the memory of light, and sorrowing, he thought, I am in hell.

He had stayed in the city for its protection, for the way it seemed to accommodate every human type. Still, he suffered — why was it not luminous? — and he was too timid to leave. He canceled the rest of his tour: Philadelphia, Boston, the C-span segment, the photo shoot for the Time interview.

“It’s not a problem,” Axelrod said. “The book is doing great.”

But the city was not benign. He was a cripple here. He had slipped into a diabolical darkness that he had once denied ever existed. He was reminded every second of his ailment; he was seriously disabled, among strangers. Nothing was worse than to go to sleep miserable, trying to hope, and to get up the next morning just as miserable, and hopeless.

A call came, a voice said, “Mr. Steadman?” and when he said yes, “This is Trespassing. Please hold for Mr. Gurvitch.”

The next voice he heard was a gruff and displeased one.

“Shel Gurvitch, Trespassing Promotions.” And after a deep and pitying breath, “Slade, I don’t think we’ve met. I won’t waste your time. I just want to say that we were not told anything in advance about your publicity tour and, wait a minute”—Steadman had begun to object—“we couldn’t be sorrier about your accident. But we are seriously questioning what sort of a message your headlining is sending to the branding emphasis of our licensing base.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Give you an example. The Limited Edition package.”

“Of my book?”

“No. The Trespassing Limited Edition that we proposed for the redesign of the new Jeep. We’ve just been turned down. We think it’s related to your accident.”

“What accident?”

“Your thing. Your eyesight. Your infirmity.”

Steadman put down the phone. He took no more calls. He hardly went out. And who was that always following him? He only needed to pause at a curb for someone to offer him money, believing he was panhandling. One person, passing him, pressed a bill into his hand. He was so startled he held it as he walked along, and moments later he was bumped — a whiff of acrid sweat — and the money was snatched from him.

Some awful logic was chopping him small as his book was being elevated. Yes, he had his book. His quest had been a success. Now he knew the price.

To control his fear and gain confidence, he folded the remainder of his crumbled drug in paper and made a parcel of it. He left his hotel, the Carlyle, took small slow steps one block up Madison, turned east, and tapped his way down 77th, across Park Avenue and onward, past Lenox Hill Hospital. He sensed a slackening of attention in passersby, which allowed him a shadowy intimation that he was being followed again — someone close behind him. He turned sharply, tottering in darkness.

“What do you want?”

Whoever it was shadowing him halted and took a breath.

“You think I don’t see you?” Steadman said. He gestured with his stick. “I know you’re there. You’re not fooling me. Is it Manfred?”

There was no sound except the slapping tread of a pedestrian striding through the murk. Never mind the darkness, forget the worrying voices — he could not breathe. It was as though all the air had been sucked from the city. In that vacuum, Steadman heard his own hollow voice in his ears.