to it. Inside the mailbox was a plain white envelope, a pistol, and a silver hourglass, lying on its side. He knew instinctively that they had been left there for him and nobody else.
He started toward them, but something caught his eye from the edge of the screen, and without thinking he turned toward it and stepped off the edge of the cliff.
The screen reeled around him: blue skies, silver river, red cliff walls, blue skies again. He was falling. Heâd been so involved with the game that his body started up a panic response: His neck prickled, and his inner ear spun. There was a last flash of bright sun before he hit the water, then the light changed, becoming weak and murky, brown and green and gray. His body settled slowly down toward the river bottom, swaying from side to side like a falling leaf, and came to rest on his back, facing up toward the shining, wobbling surface.
He pressed a few keys. Nothing happened. His point of view was tilted slightly; he could see a bit of the sandy bottom, some slimy green plant life, the shimmery surface above him. A drab freshwater fishâa trout?âswam by far above him, momentarily eclipsing the watery sun. He realized he was dead.
The apartment was silent. Tentatively, he pressed another key. The screen cleared.
He was back in the forest, back at the beginning again. A gentle breeze was blowing. The sky was blue. He was alive.
4
T HE NEXT DAY Edward woke up late. His head hurt. The last thing he remembered was wandering around the green landscape in the game, through hills and meadows and thickets, playing with the controls, looking for clues. At some point heâd finished the wine and begun pouring himself nips from a bottle of grappaâZeph and Caroline had brought it back from a conference in Florence last yearâon the principle that sticking to liquids based on grapes would minimize his hangover. He was now reevaluating that principle in light of new evidence.
When did he finally go to bed? God, he was no better than Stewart and his GameBoy. The apartment was stifling. The windows were all closed, and sunlight was pouring in. He could feel the sheen of sweat on his bare back as he swung his legs down. Edward staggered out of bed, threw open all the windows he could find, and staggered back again.
He looked at the clock: It was two in the afternoon. He shook his head. All that stress and lack of sleep must have finally caught up with him. He rested his head in his hands. Today was Fridayâhe was pretty sure it was, anyway. Usually he would have been at work for six hours already. Standing in the kitchen, he ran himself a tall glass of water and drank it in one long, unbroken series of swallows. A sweet, oversized green apple sat on the counter, and he sliced off a thin segment with a steel carving knife. He ate it off the blade. The crispness of it hurt his teeth.
There was a message on his answering machine. It must have been left last night after he went to bed.
âEdward. Zeph here.â Loud party noise in the background. âEverybody else here is talking on their cell phones so Caroline and meâCaroline and Iâwe thought we should call somebody on ours.â Caroline said something in the background. âIâm not yelling. This is how I talk. Listen, Iâm talking in my normal voice.â Zeph was drunk.
âWeâre all pissed off at you,â he went on. âFabrikantâs pissed that youâre not here, and weâre pissed that youâre not here, and thatâs pretty much everybodyâwell, thereâs some other people here, theyâre probably pissed at you too, I canât say for sure. I donât really feel like asking them. We should go now. All this small talk isnât going to make itself. Oh, the Artiste is here, isnât that a scream? I told him about it. I canât believe he came. Heâs walking around freaking people out. Wow, what a gloriously slutty-looking
He started toward them, but something caught his eye from the edge of the screen, and without thinking he turned toward it and stepped off the edge of the cliff.
The screen reeled around him: blue skies, silver river, red cliff walls, blue skies again. He was falling. Heâd been so involved with the game that his body started up a panic response: His neck prickled, and his inner ear spun. There was a last flash of bright sun before he hit the water, then the light changed, becoming weak and murky, brown and green and gray. His body settled slowly down toward the river bottom, swaying from side to side like a falling leaf, and came to rest on his back, facing up toward the shining, wobbling surface.
He pressed a few keys. Nothing happened. His point of view was tilted slightly; he could see a bit of the sandy bottom, some slimy green plant life, the shimmery surface above him. A drab freshwater fishâa trout?âswam by far above him, momentarily eclipsing the watery sun. He realized he was dead.
The apartment was silent. Tentatively, he pressed another key. The screen cleared.
He was back in the forest, back at the beginning again. A gentle breeze was blowing. The sky was blue. He was alive.
4
T HE NEXT DAY Edward woke up late. His head hurt. The last thing he remembered was wandering around the green landscape in the game, through hills and meadows and thickets, playing with the controls, looking for clues. At some point heâd finished the wine and begun pouring himself nips from a bottle of grappaâZeph and Caroline had brought it back from a conference in Florence last yearâon the principle that sticking to liquids based on grapes would minimize his hangover. He was now reevaluating that principle in light of new evidence.
When did he finally go to bed? God, he was no better than Stewart and his GameBoy. The apartment was stifling. The windows were all closed, and sunlight was pouring in. He could feel the sheen of sweat on his bare back as he swung his legs down. Edward staggered out of bed, threw open all the windows he could find, and staggered back again.
He looked at the clock: It was two in the afternoon. He shook his head. All that stress and lack of sleep must have finally caught up with him. He rested his head in his hands. Today was Fridayâhe was pretty sure it was, anyway. Usually he would have been at work for six hours already. Standing in the kitchen, he ran himself a tall glass of water and drank it in one long, unbroken series of swallows. A sweet, oversized green apple sat on the counter, and he sliced off a thin segment with a steel carving knife. He ate it off the blade. The crispness of it hurt his teeth.
There was a message on his answering machine. It must have been left last night after he went to bed.
âEdward. Zeph here.â Loud party noise in the background. âEverybody else here is talking on their cell phones so Caroline and meâCaroline and Iâwe thought we should call somebody on ours.â Caroline said something in the background. âIâm not yelling. This is how I talk. Listen, Iâm talking in my normal voice.â Zeph was drunk.
âWeâre all pissed off at you,â he went on. âFabrikantâs pissed that youâre not here, and weâre pissed that youâre not here, and thatâs pretty much everybodyâwell, thereâs some other people here, theyâre probably pissed at you too, I canât say for sure. I donât really feel like asking them. We should go now. All this small talk isnât going to make itself. Oh, the Artiste is here, isnât that a scream? I told him about it. I canât believe he came. Heâs walking around freaking people out. Wow, what a gloriously slutty-looking
Similar Books
