think so? Why?”
“Because they said so. Because we were both soaked.
Because we looked it. There was a perception there. Of, what’s that word? Togetherness. That we were mated.”
“Yeah?” She waits. “Well, who knows? It could happen.
You and me, I mean. I’d just have to dump my boyfriend. I’d have to cheat on him. Of course, that’s always a possibility.
Sometimes I do despise him. He lives in Berkeley, half a million miles away. And, after all, he’s an out-and-out android, this guy. Robby. Robby the Robot.”
“So let me ask you a question,” Nathaniel says, improvis-ing. “There’s something I can’t remember about what happened when I drove you home. Did I talk about my father and my sister last night? Coolberg said I did.”
“Oh, him. Hell, I don’t know. I didn’t hear you saying anything like that. Forget him, all right?”
“All right. Sure. But I can’t forget him—he just called.
Listen: he wants to go to Niagara Falls tomorrow evening. To see the gods come out, is what he says. I told him I wouldn’t go unless I brought you along. Can you come?” To break the pause that follows, he asks, “ Will you come? You’ve got to.”
“All right,” she says. “Yes. But what’s all this about the gods? What gods?”
“How should I know? I’m not acquainted with them. You should ask him.”
t h e s ou l t h i e f
49
“Nathaniel,” she says.
“What?”
“Take me somewhere. Right now. Okay? Come get me and take me somewhere. I’m alone here and I can’t stand it and I need to be delivered. I’ve been drinking stale burned coffee and having a breakdown. The kind where you tear paper into little strips and then stare at the phone? And you watch the sun crossing the sky? A day with no future? That kind.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“No, no, don’t ask me. I don’t care. Uh, wait: I do care.
Last night, you said something about the Mirrored Room.
The one in the Albright-Knox? Floors, ceilings, walls—all mirrors? That Lucas Samaras piece. We could do a trip over there. We need a break. We could be trapped in infinity.
That’d be cool. Come get me in that strange little car of yours and take me to the Mirrored Room, all right? You remember where I live?”
“Yeah,” he says, hanging up in so much of a rush that he forgets to say good-bye to her, which is just what Coolberg does.
8
Inside Lucas Samaras’s Mirrored Room, in his socks—once again, shoes must be left outside, and only two people can inhabit the room at one time—Nathaniel takes Theresa’s hand. He is making an effort to think, but this site itself disposes of ideas quickly, leaving the visitor empty and somehow impaired. The question of whether this assembly is “art” seems somehow beside the point, though what that point may actually be recedes and dissolves like all other points, into the mirrors. The air in the Mirrored Room smells rank, a soiled and not-at-all-friendly unventilated stenchy atmosphere in three cavernous dimensions. This eight-foot cube has a table and chair inside, placed against the opposing wall, both objects with mirrored surfaces, opposite which the only available light trickles in from the doorway, and either the glass has been tinted, or infinity itself, as revealed by the mirrors, is green, a color that in this particular case has been emptied of all hope. The mirrored chair appears to be a joke and affords no rest to the visitor.
Light inside the room, dog-tired, bounces off the surfaces until it drops.
t h e s ou l t h i e f
51
Nathaniel has been warned by a friend: the visitor to this room returns to the rest of the museum uncertain whether he has had an interesting experience or a dull one or any experience at all. Nothing attaches to the room, and visitors are usually eager to escape its confines.
Looking down, Nathaniel sees himself and Theresa, holding hands, reflected so that they stand underneath the floor, balanced upside down on the
“Because they said so. Because we were both soaked.
Because we looked it. There was a perception there. Of, what’s that word? Togetherness. That we were mated.”
“Yeah?” She waits. “Well, who knows? It could happen.
You and me, I mean. I’d just have to dump my boyfriend. I’d have to cheat on him. Of course, that’s always a possibility.
Sometimes I do despise him. He lives in Berkeley, half a million miles away. And, after all, he’s an out-and-out android, this guy. Robby. Robby the Robot.”
“So let me ask you a question,” Nathaniel says, improvis-ing. “There’s something I can’t remember about what happened when I drove you home. Did I talk about my father and my sister last night? Coolberg said I did.”
“Oh, him. Hell, I don’t know. I didn’t hear you saying anything like that. Forget him, all right?”
“All right. Sure. But I can’t forget him—he just called.
Listen: he wants to go to Niagara Falls tomorrow evening. To see the gods come out, is what he says. I told him I wouldn’t go unless I brought you along. Can you come?” To break the pause that follows, he asks, “ Will you come? You’ve got to.”
“All right,” she says. “Yes. But what’s all this about the gods? What gods?”
“How should I know? I’m not acquainted with them. You should ask him.”
t h e s ou l t h i e f
49
“Nathaniel,” she says.
“What?”
“Take me somewhere. Right now. Okay? Come get me and take me somewhere. I’m alone here and I can’t stand it and I need to be delivered. I’ve been drinking stale burned coffee and having a breakdown. The kind where you tear paper into little strips and then stare at the phone? And you watch the sun crossing the sky? A day with no future? That kind.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“No, no, don’t ask me. I don’t care. Uh, wait: I do care.
Last night, you said something about the Mirrored Room.
The one in the Albright-Knox? Floors, ceilings, walls—all mirrors? That Lucas Samaras piece. We could do a trip over there. We need a break. We could be trapped in infinity.
That’d be cool. Come get me in that strange little car of yours and take me to the Mirrored Room, all right? You remember where I live?”
“Yeah,” he says, hanging up in so much of a rush that he forgets to say good-bye to her, which is just what Coolberg does.
8
Inside Lucas Samaras’s Mirrored Room, in his socks—once again, shoes must be left outside, and only two people can inhabit the room at one time—Nathaniel takes Theresa’s hand. He is making an effort to think, but this site itself disposes of ideas quickly, leaving the visitor empty and somehow impaired. The question of whether this assembly is “art” seems somehow beside the point, though what that point may actually be recedes and dissolves like all other points, into the mirrors. The air in the Mirrored Room smells rank, a soiled and not-at-all-friendly unventilated stenchy atmosphere in three cavernous dimensions. This eight-foot cube has a table and chair inside, placed against the opposing wall, both objects with mirrored surfaces, opposite which the only available light trickles in from the doorway, and either the glass has been tinted, or infinity itself, as revealed by the mirrors, is green, a color that in this particular case has been emptied of all hope. The mirrored chair appears to be a joke and affords no rest to the visitor.
Light inside the room, dog-tired, bounces off the surfaces until it drops.
t h e s ou l t h i e f
51
Nathaniel has been warned by a friend: the visitor to this room returns to the rest of the museum uncertain whether he has had an interesting experience or a dull one or any experience at all. Nothing attaches to the room, and visitors are usually eager to escape its confines.
Looking down, Nathaniel sees himself and Theresa, holding hands, reflected so that they stand underneath the floor, balanced upside down on the
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