Paul Auster - City of Glass

"I understand."

"A lie can never be undone. Even the truth is not enough. I am a father and I know about these things. Remember what happened to the father of our country. He chopped down the cherry tree, and then he said to his father, 'I cannot tell a lie.' Soon thereafter, he threw the coin across the river. These two stories are crucial events in American history. George Washington chopped down the tree, and then he threw away the money. Do you understand? He was telling us an essential truth. Namely, that money doesn't grow on trees. This is what made our country great, Peter. Now George Washington's picture is on every dollar bill. There is an important lesson to be learned from all this."

"I agree with you."

"Of course, it's unfortunate that the tree was cut down. That tree was the Tree of Life, and it would have made us immune to death. Now we welcome death with open arms, especially when we are old. But the father of our country knew his duty. He could not do otherwise. That is the meaning of the phrase 'Life is a bowl of cherries.' If the tree had remained standing, we would have had eternal life."

"Yes I see what you mean."

"I have many such ideas in my head. My mind never stops. You were always a clever boy, Peter, and I'm glad you understand."

"I can follow you perfectly."

"A father must always teach his son the lessons he has learned. In that way knowledge is passed down from generation to generation, and we grow wise."

"I won't forget what you've told me."

"I'll be able to die happily now, Peter."

"I'm glad."

"But you musn't forget anything."

"I won't, father. I promise."

The next morning Quinn was in front of the hotel at his usual time. The weather had finally changed. After two weeks of resplendent skies, a drizzle now fell on New York, and the streets were filled with the sound of wet, moving tires. For an hour Quinn sat on the bench, protecting himself with a black umbrella, thinking Stillman would appear at any moment. He worked his way through his roll and coffee, read the account of the Mets' Sunday loss, and still there was no sign of the old man. Patience, he said to himself, and began to tackle the rest of the paper. Forty minutes passed. He reached the financial section and was about to read an analysis of a corporate merger when the rain suddenly intensified. Reluctantly, he got up from his bench and removed himself to a doorway across the street from the hotel. He stood there in his clammy shoes for an hour and a half. Was Stillman sick? he wondered. Quinn tried to imagine him lying in his bed, sweating out a fever. Perhaps the old man had died during the night and his body had not yet been discovered. Such things happened, he told himself.

Today was to have been the crucial day, and Quinn had made elaborate and meticulous plans for it. Now his calculations were for naught. It disturbed him that he had not taken this contingency into account.

Still, he hesitated. He stood there under his umbrella, watching the rain slide off it in small, fine drops. By eleven o'clock he had begun to formulate a decision. Half an hour later he crossed the street, walked forty paces down the block, and entered Stillman's hotel. The place stank of cockroach repellant and dead cigarettes. A few of the tenants, with nowhere to go in the rain, were sitting in the lobby, sprawled out on orange plastic chairs. The place seemed blank, a hell of stale thoughts.

A large black man sitting behind the front desk with his sleeves rolled up. One elbow was on the counter, and his head was propped in his open hand. With his other hand he turned the pages of a tabloid newspaper, barely pausing to read the words. He looked bored enough to have been there all his life.

"I'd like to leave a message for one of your guests," Quinn said.

The man looked up at him slowly, as if wishing him to disappear.

"I’d like to leave a message for one of your guests," Quinn said again.

"No guests here," said the man. "We call them residents."

"For one of your residents, then. I'd like to leave a message."

"And just who might that be, bub?"

"Stillman. Peter Stillman."

The man pretended to think for a moment, then shook his head. "Nope. Can't recall anyone by that name."

"Don't you have a register?"

"Yeah, we've got a book. But it's in the safe."

"The safe? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the book, bub. The boss likes to keep it locked up in the safe."

"I don't suppose you know the combination?"

"Sorry. The boss is the only one."

Quinn sighed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a five-dollar bill. He slapped it on the counter and kept his hand on top of it.

"I don't suppose you happen to have a copy of the book, do you?" he asked.

"Maybe," said the man. "I'll have to look in my office."

The man lifted up the newspaper, which was lying open on the counter. Under it was the register.

"A lucky break," said Quinn, releasing his hand from the money.

"Yeah, I guess today's my day," answered the man, sliding the bill along the surface of the counter, whisking it over the edge, and putting it in his pocket. "What did you say your friend's name was again?"

"Stillman. An old man with white hair."

"The gent in the overcoat?"

"That's right."

"We call him the Professor."

"That's the man. Do you have a room number? He checked in about two weeks ago."

The clerk opened the register, turned the pages, and ran his finger down the column of names and numbers. "Stillman," he said. "Room 303. He's not here anymore."

"What?"

"He checked out."

"What are you talking about?"

"Listen, bub, I'm only telling you what it says here. Stillman checked out last night. He's gone."

"That's the craziest thing I ever heard."

"I don't care what it is. It's all down here in black and white. "

"Did he give a forwarding address?"

"Are you kidding?"

"What time did he leave?"

"Have to ask Louie, the night man. He comes on at eight."

"Can I see the room?"

"Sorry. I rented it myself this morning. The guy's up there asleep. "

"What did he look like?"

"For five bucks you've got a lot of questions."

"Forget it," said Quinn, waving his hand desperately. "It doesn't matter. "

He walked back to his apartment in a downpour, getting drenched in spite of his umbrella. So much for functions, he said to himself So much for the meaning of words. He threw the umbrella onto the floor of his living room in disgust. Then he took off his jacket and flung it against the wall. Water splattered everywhere.

He called Virginia Stillman, too embarrassed to think of doing anything else. At the moment she answered, he nearly hung up the phone.

"I lost him," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"He checked out of his room last night. I don't know where he is."

"I'm scared, Paul."

"Have you heard from him?"

"I don't know. I think so, but I'm not sure."

"What does that mean?"

"Peter answered the phone this morning while I was taking my bath. He won't tell me who it was. He went into his room, closed the shades, and refuses to speak."

"But he's done that before."

"Yes. That's why I'm not sure. But it hasn't happened in a long time."

"It sounds bad."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Don't worry. I have a few ideas. I'll get to work on them right away."

"How will I reach you?"

"I'll call you every two hours, no matter where I am."

"Do you promise?"

"Yes, I promise."

"I'm so scared, I can't stand it."

"It's all my fault. I made a stupid mistake and I'm sorry."

"No, I don't blame you. No one can watch a person twenty-four hours a day. It's impossible. You'd have to be inside his skin. "