Travels in the Scriptorium by Paul Auster

Confederation has turned against me, it can only mean that the Confederation has turned against itself. I cannot hope for life anymore, but if these pages should fall into the hands of someone with sufficient strength of heart to read them in the spirit with which they were written, then perhaps my murder will not have been an entirely useless act.

Far off in the distance, beyond the room, beyond the building in which the room is located, Mr. Blank again hears the faint cry of a bird. Distracted by the sound, he looks up from the page in front of him, temporarily abandoning the dolorous confessions of Sigmund Graf. A sudden feeling of pressure invades his stomach, and before Mr. Blank can decide whether to call that feeling one of pain or simple discomfort, his intestinal tract bugles forth an ample, resonant fart. Ho ho, he says out loud, grunting with pleasure. Hopalong Cassidy rides again! Then he tips back in the chair, closes his eyes, and begins to rock, soon lapsing into one of those dull, trance-like states in which the mind is emptied of all thoughts, all emotions, all connection to the self. Thus trapped in his reptilian stupor, Mr. Blank is, as it were, absent, or at least momentarily cut off from his surroundings, which means that he does not hear the hand that has begun knocking on the door. Worse than that, he does not hear the door open, and therefore, even though someone has entered the room, he is still in the dark as to whether the door is locked from the outside or not. Or soon will be still in the dark, once he emerges from his trance.
    Someone taps him on the shoulder, but before Mr. Blank can open his eyes and swivel around in the chair to see who it is, that person has already begun to speak. From the timbre and intonation of the voice, Mr. Blank instantly recognizes that it belongs to a man, but he is perplexed by the fact that it is talking to him in what sounds like a cockney accent.
    I’m sorry, Mr. Blank, the man says to him. I knocked and knocked, and when you didn’t open the door, I thought I should come in and see if anything was wrong.
    Mr. Blank now swivels around in the chair and takes a close look at his visitor. The man appears to be in his early fifties, with neatly combed hair and a small brown mustache with flecks of gray in it. Neither short nor tall, Mr. Blank says to himself, but more on the short side than the tall, and from his erect, almost ramrod posture as he stands there in his tweed suit, he looks like a military man of some kind, or perhaps a lower-level civil servant.
    And you are? Mr. Blank asks.
    Flood, sir. First name James. Middle name Patrick. James P. Flood. Don’t you remember me?

    Dimly, only dimly.
    The ex-policeman.
    Ah. Flood, the ex-policeman. You were going to pay me a visit, weren’t you?
    Yes, sir. Exactly, sir. That’s why I’m here. I’m paying you the visit now.
    Mr. Blank casts his eyes about the room, looking for a chair so he can offer Flood a place to sit, but apparently the only chair in the room is the one he now occupies himself.
    Something wrong? Flood asks.
    No, no, Mr. Blank replies. I’m just looking for another chair, that’s all.
    I can always sit on the bed, Flood answers, gesturing to the bed. Or, if you’re feeling up to it, we could go to the park across the way. No shortage of benches there.
    Mr. Blank points down at his right foot and says: I’m missing a shoe. I can’t go outside with only one shoe.
    Flood turns around and immediately spots the white tennis shoe on the floor below the window. There’s the other one, sir. We could get it back on you in two shakes of a cat.
    A cat? What are you talking about?
    Just an expression, Mr. Blank. No harm intended. Flood pauses for a moment, looks back at the shoe on the floor, and then says: Well, what about it? Should we put it on or not?
    Mr. Blank lets out a long, weary sigh. No, he says, with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, I don’t want to put it on. I’m sick of these