Read The Book of Illusions Online
Authors: Paul Auster
We cut to a shot of Claire in bed. Hovering around her like a nurse, Martin takes her temperature, plies her with aspirins, dabs her forehead with a wet towel, feeds her broth with a spoon. She didn’t complain, he continues.
Her skin was hot to
the touch, but she seemed to be in good spirits. After a while,
she pushed me out of the room. Go back to your story, she said.
I’d rather sit here with you, I told her, but then Claire laughed,
and with a funny, pouting expression on her face, she said that
if I didn’t go back to work this instant, she was going to jump
out of bed, rip off her clothes, and run outside with nothing on.
And that wasn’t going to make her well, was it?
A moment later, Martin is sitting at his desk, typing another page of his story. The sound is particularly intense here—keys clattering at a furious rhythm, great staccato bursts of activity—but then the volume diminishes, falls off into near silence, and Martin’s voice returns. We go back to the bedroom. One by one, we see a succession of highly detailed close-ups, still-life renderings of the tiny world around Claire’s sickbed: a glass of water, the edge of a closed book, a thermometer, the knob on the night-table drawer.
But
the next morning
, Martin says,
the fever was worse. I told her
that I was taking the day off, whether she liked it or not. I sat
beside her for several hours, and by the middle of the afternoon
,
she seemed to take a turn for the better
.
The camera jumps back to a wide shot of the room, and there she is, sitting up in bed, looking like the old vivacious Claire. In a mock-serious voice, she is reading a passage from Kant out loud to Martin: …
things which we see are not by
themselves what we see … so that, if we drop our subject or the
subjective form of our senses, all qualities, all relations of objects
in space and time, nay space and time themselves, would vanish
.
Things seem to be returning to normal. With Claire on the mend, Martin goes back to his story the next day. He works steadily for two or three hours, and then he breaks off to check in on Claire. When he enters the bedroom, she is fast asleep, bundled up under a pile of quilts and blankets. It is cold in the room—cold enough for Martin to see his own breath in front of him when he exhales. Hector warned him about the furnace, but Martin has clearly forgotten to attend to it. Too many crazy things happened after that phone call, and Fortunato’s name must have slipped his mind.
There is a fireplace in the room, however, and a small stack of wood on the hearth. Martin begins preparing a fire, working as quietly as he can so as not to disturb Claire. Once the flames catch hold, he adjusts the logs with a poker, and one of them inadvertently slips out from under the others. The noise breaks in on Claire’s sleep. She stirs, groaning softly as she thrashes about under the covers, and then she opens her eyes. Martin swivels around from his spot in front of the fire. I didn’t mean to wake you, he says. I’m sorry.
Claire smiles. She looks weak, drained of physical resources, barely conscious. Hello, Martin, she whispers. How’s my beautiful man?
Martin walks over to the bed, sits down, and puts his hand on Claire’s forehead. You’re burning up, he says.
I’m all right, she answers. I feel fine.
This is the third day, Claire. I think we should call a doctor.
No need for that. Just give me some more of those aspirins. In half an hour I’ll be good as new.
Martin shakes out three aspirins from the bottle and hands them to her with a glass of water. As Claire swallows the pills, Martin says: This isn’t good. I really think a doctor should take a look at you.
Claire gives Martin the empty glass, and he puts it back on the table. Tell me what’s happening in the story, she says. That will make me feel better.
You should rest.
Please, Martin. Just a little bit.
Not wanting to disappoint her, and yet not wanting to tax her strength, Martin confines his summary to just a few sentences. It’s dark now, he says. Nordstrum has left the house. Anna is on her way, but he doesn’t know that. If she doesn’t get there soon, he’s going to walk into the trap.
Will she make it?
It doesn’t matter. The important thing is that she’s going to him.
She’s fallen in love with him, hasn’t she?
In her own way, yes. She’s putting her life in danger for him. That’s a form of love, isn’t it?
Claire doesn’t answer. Martin’s question has overwhelmed her, and she is too moved to give a response. Her eyes fill up with tears; her mouth trembles; a look of rapturous intensity shines forth from her face. It’s as if she has reached some new understanding of herself, as if her whole body were suddenly giving off light. How much more to go? she asks.
Two or three pages, Martin says. I’m almost at the end.
Write them now.
They can wait. I’ll do them tomorrow.
No, Martin, do them now. You must do them now.
The camera lingers on Claire’s face for a moment or two—and then, as if propelled by the force of her command, Martin is at his desk again, typing. This initiates a sequence of crosscuts between the two characters. We go from Martin back to Claire, from Claire back to Martin, and in the space of ten simple shots, we finally get it, we finally understand what’s been happening. Then Martin returns to the bedroom, and in ten more shots he finally understands as well.
Gradually coming to her senses, Claire begins to glance around the room, and when she sees Martin in front of the fireplace, madly crumpling up his manuscript and throwing it into the fire, she looks stricken. What are you doing? she says. My God, Martin, what are you doing?
I’m buying you back, he says. Thirty-seven pages for your life, Claire. It’s the best bargain I’ve ever made.
But you can’t do that. It’s not allowed.
Maybe not. But I’m doing it, aren’t I? I’ve changed the rules.
Claire is overwrought, about to break down in tears. Oh Martin, she says. You don’t know what you’ve done.
Undaunted by Claire’s objections, Martin goes on feeding his story to the flames. When he comes to the last page, he turns to her with a triumphant look in his eyes. You see, Claire? he says. It’s only words. Thirty-seven pages—and nothing but words.
He sits down on the bed, and Claire throws her arms around him. It is a surprisingly fierce and passionate gesture, and for the first time since the beginning of the film, Claire looks afraid. She wants him, and she doesn’t want him. She is ecstatic; she is horrified. She has always been the strong one, the one with all the courage and confidence, but now that Martin has solved the riddle of his enchantment, she seems lost. What are you going to do? she says. Tell me, Martin, what on earth are we going to do?
Before Martin can answer her, the scene shifts to the outside. We see the house from a distance of about fifty feet, sitting in the middle of nowhere. The camera tilts upward, pans to the right, and comes to rest on the boughs of a large cottonwood. Everything is still. No wind is blowing; no air is rushing through the branches; not a single leaf moves. Ten seconds go by, fifteen seconds go by, and then, very abruptly, the screen goes black and the film is over.
LATER THAT SAME
day, the print of
Martin Frost
was destroyed. I should probably consider myself lucky to have seen it, to have been there for the last showing of a film at the Blue Stone Ranch, but a part of me wishes that Alma had never turned on the projector that morning, that I had never been exposed to a frame of that elegant and haunting little movie. It wouldn’t have mattered if I hadn’t liked it, if I had been able to dismiss it as a bad or incompetent piece of storytelling, but this was manifestly not bad, manifestly not incompetent, and now that I knew what was about to be lost, I realized that I had traveled over two thousand miles to participate in a crime. When
The Inner Life
went up in flames with the rest of Hector’s work that July afternoon, it felt like a tragedy to me, like the end of the goddamn bloody world.
That was the only movie I saw. There wasn’t enough time to watch another, and given that I sat through
Martin Frost
only once, it was a good thing Alma thought to provide me with the notebook and the pen. There is no contradiction in that statement. I might wish that I had never seen the film, but the fact was that I did see it, and now that the words and images had insinuated themselves inside me, I was thankful that there was a way to hold on to them. The notes I took that morning have helped me to remember details that otherwise would have slipped away from me, to keep the film alive in my head after so many years. I scarcely looked down at the page as I wrote—scribbling in the mad telegraphic shorthand I developed as a student—and if much of my writing bordered on the illegible, I eventually managed to decipher about ninety or ninety-five percent of it. It took weeks of painstaking effort to make the transcription, but once I had a fair copy of the dialogue and had broken down the story into numbered scenes, it became possible to reestablish contact with the film. I have to go into a kind of trance in order to do that (which means that it doesn’t always work), but if I concentrate hard enough and get myself into the right mood, the words can actually conjure up the images for me, and it’s as if I’m watching
The Inner Life of
Martin Frost
again—or little flashes of it, in any case, locked in the projection room of my skull. Last year, when I began toying with the idea of writing this book, I went in for several consultations with a hypnotist. Nothing much happened the first time, but the next three visits produced astonishing results. By listening to the tape recordings of those sessions, I have been able to fill in certain blanks, to bring back a number of things that were beginning to vanish. For better or worse, it seems that the philosophers were right. Nothing that happens to us is ever lost.
The screening ended a few minutes past noon. Alma and I were both hungry by then, both in need of a short break, and so instead of plunging directly into another film, we went out into the hall with our basket lunch. It was a strange spot for a picnic—camped out on the dusty linoleum floor, digging into our cheese sandwiches under a row of blinking fluorescent lights—but we didn’t want to lose any time bsty looking for a better place outdoors. We talked about Alma’s mother, about Hector’s other work, about the oddly satisfying mixture of whimsy and seriousness in the film that had just ended. Movies could trick us into believing any kind of nonsense, I said, but this time I had fallen for it. When Claire came back to life in the final scene, I had shuddered, had felt that I was watching an authentic miracle. Martin burned his story in order to rescue Claire from the dead, but it was also Hector rescuing Brigid O’Fallon, also Hector burning his own movies, and the more things had doubled back on themselves like that, the more deeply I had entered the film. Too bad we couldn’t watch it again, I said. I wasn’t sure if I had watched the wind closely enough, if I had paid enough attention to the trees.
I must have rattled on longer than I should have, for no sooner did Alma announce the title of the next movie we were going to see (
Report from the Anti-World
) than a door slammed somewhere in the building. We were just climbing to our feet at that point—brushing the crumbs off our clothes, taking a last swig of iced tea from the thermos, getting ready to go back inside. We heard the sound of tennis shoes flapping against the linoleum. A couple of moments later, Juan appeared at the end of the hall, and when he started coming toward us at a half trot—more running than walking—we both knew that Frieda had returned.