happinesses, its disappointments, its loves, its hates, its pains, its joys. Your entire life. The dream should have to last an equivalent amount of time, but somehow it happens in just one night.
The guess artist said nothing, but only stared at S. with a look of great and involved interest. This pleased S. He continued.
—Most people forget their dream. In fact, everyone forgets most of it. However, I was a precocious child. That morning I was left alone by myself with a large sheet of paper and a bucket of crayons. While my dream was still fresh in my head, I constructed a map of my life, using symbols and writing down what I could. Somehow I realized that to write too much would ruin it, and would make me sad in the end. Therefore, what I wrote down were mostly clues as to how to manage the difficult parts.
He closed the map up and returned it to his sleeve.
—Doesn’t that make life rather complicated? asked the guess artist.
—I don’t think it can become more complicated than it is. I think it has already inherently reached the ultimate level of complication.
—What does it say about our search? asked the guess artist.
—We’re coming up to a tricky part. I think we may end up in a bit of trouble for a little while.
—All right, said the guess artist. I don’t mind that. I don’t have anything else to do. And I can always go back to my booth.
—Yes, said S. You can always go back to your booth.
Just then the train pulled into a station. The municipal inspector and the guess artist got off. They went down to the street level and walked for a while in the direction of Beard Street. The night had been passed in great industry and first false, then true exaggeration of circumstance. Both men felt this, and it was a pleasing feeling. The sun was coming up behind them to the left as they walked, and they could feel it warming their backs. The guess artist thought of his booth, and how the light would be warming the curtain that hung over it, how an old man might be walking along the boardwalk just at this moment, and how he might look at the guess artist’s sign and think, I wonder if he can guess my thought. The guess artist tried, just to try.
—He is thinking of his late wife, who used to love to drink tea when the sun was rising. All the rest of the day for her was naught. Just drinking tea at dawn and having a bit of a walk to look for signs that the seasons were changing. And also there was the picture of her when she was a young woman and all the young men were after her for a date. And how she had asked him, she had asked him, if he wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, and how fine it had been that night, with all the lights of Manhattan far away on the horizon, and the feel of his own body, young in his young man’s clothes.
—What are you talking about? asked S.
—Nothing, said the guess artist. Here we are.
Up ahead there was a sign.
BEARD STREET
it said.
—It’s that way, said S., pointing to the left.
They walked along for a little ways. It was a Victorian house, quite a large one, standing all by itself on an overgrown block. There was a high stone wall around the premises. Farther down the street, S. could see the warehouses where ships would leave their goods, and the wharves. He could see in the distance Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty. Lower Manhattan sat quietly too, behind a veil of Brooklyn buildings. He thought then of the Seventh Ministry, of Rita sitting behind her desk, delicately writing out messages to bring up to him upon his return. He thought too of Mars Levkin, who might be wondering at that very moment just what the young inspector was up to.
Well, Levkin, thought S., I think you would approve.
—In we go, said S.
Up to the gate he proceeded. A metal plate was stamped and set upon the gate: 14 BEARD STREET , it said. He unbolted the gate, and passed through. The guess artist followed after. Up the stone stair they went to the door. S.
The guess artist said nothing, but only stared at S. with a look of great and involved interest. This pleased S. He continued.
—Most people forget their dream. In fact, everyone forgets most of it. However, I was a precocious child. That morning I was left alone by myself with a large sheet of paper and a bucket of crayons. While my dream was still fresh in my head, I constructed a map of my life, using symbols and writing down what I could. Somehow I realized that to write too much would ruin it, and would make me sad in the end. Therefore, what I wrote down were mostly clues as to how to manage the difficult parts.
He closed the map up and returned it to his sleeve.
—Doesn’t that make life rather complicated? asked the guess artist.
—I don’t think it can become more complicated than it is. I think it has already inherently reached the ultimate level of complication.
—What does it say about our search? asked the guess artist.
—We’re coming up to a tricky part. I think we may end up in a bit of trouble for a little while.
—All right, said the guess artist. I don’t mind that. I don’t have anything else to do. And I can always go back to my booth.
—Yes, said S. You can always go back to your booth.
Just then the train pulled into a station. The municipal inspector and the guess artist got off. They went down to the street level and walked for a while in the direction of Beard Street. The night had been passed in great industry and first false, then true exaggeration of circumstance. Both men felt this, and it was a pleasing feeling. The sun was coming up behind them to the left as they walked, and they could feel it warming their backs. The guess artist thought of his booth, and how the light would be warming the curtain that hung over it, how an old man might be walking along the boardwalk just at this moment, and how he might look at the guess artist’s sign and think, I wonder if he can guess my thought. The guess artist tried, just to try.
—He is thinking of his late wife, who used to love to drink tea when the sun was rising. All the rest of the day for her was naught. Just drinking tea at dawn and having a bit of a walk to look for signs that the seasons were changing. And also there was the picture of her when she was a young woman and all the young men were after her for a date. And how she had asked him, she had asked him, if he wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, and how fine it had been that night, with all the lights of Manhattan far away on the horizon, and the feel of his own body, young in his young man’s clothes.
—What are you talking about? asked S.
—Nothing, said the guess artist. Here we are.
Up ahead there was a sign.
BEARD STREET
it said.
—It’s that way, said S., pointing to the left.
They walked along for a little ways. It was a Victorian house, quite a large one, standing all by itself on an overgrown block. There was a high stone wall around the premises. Farther down the street, S. could see the warehouses where ships would leave their goods, and the wharves. He could see in the distance Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty. Lower Manhattan sat quietly too, behind a veil of Brooklyn buildings. He thought then of the Seventh Ministry, of Rita sitting behind her desk, delicately writing out messages to bring up to him upon his return. He thought too of Mars Levkin, who might be wondering at that very moment just what the young inspector was up to.
Well, Levkin, thought S., I think you would approve.
—In we go, said S.
Up to the gate he proceeded. A metal plate was stamped and set upon the gate: 14 BEARD STREET , it said. He unbolted the gate, and passed through. The guess artist followed after. Up the stone stair they went to the door. S.
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