City of Glass

"Hello?" he said.

Again, there was a silence on the other end. Qui

"Hello?" he said again. "What can I do for you?"

"Yes," said the voice at last. The same mechanical whisper, the same desperate tone. "Yes. It is needed now. Without delay."

"What is needed?"

"To speak. Right now. To speak right now. Yes."

"And who do you want to speak to?"

"Always the same man. Auster. The one who, calls himself Paul Auster."

This time Qui

"Speaking," he said. "This is Auster speaking."

"At last. At last I've found you." He could hear the relief in the voice, the tangible calm that suddenly seemed to overtake it.

"That's right," said Qui

"I need help," said the voice. "There is great danger. They say you are the best one to do these things."

"It depends on what things you mean."

"I mean death. I mean death and murder."

"That's not exactly my line," said Qui

"No," said the voice petulantly. "I mean the reverse."

"Someone is going to kill you?"

"Yes, kill me. That's right. I am going to be murdered."

"And you want me to protect you?"

"To protect me, yes. And to find the man who is, going to do it."

"You don't know who it is?"

"I know, yes. Of course I know. But I don't know where he is."

"Can you tell me about it?"

"Not now. Not on the phone. There is great danger. You must come here."

"How about tomorrow?"

"Good. Tomorrow. Early tomorrow. In the morning."

" Ten o'clock?"

"Good. Ten o'clock." The voice gave an address on East 69th Street. "Don't forget, Mr. Auster. You must come."

"Don't 'worry," said Qui

2

THE next morning, Qui

Nevertheless, as time wore on he found himself doing a good imitation of a man preparing to go out. He cleared the table of the breakfast dishes, tossed the newspaper on the couch, went into the bathroom, showered, shaved, went on to the bedroom wrapped in two towels, opened the closet, and picked out his clothes for the day. He found himself tending toward a jacket and tie. Qui

It was not until he had his hand on the doorknob that he began to suspect what he was doing. "I seem to be going out," he said to himself. "But if I am going out, where exactly am I going?" An hour later, as he climbed from the number 4 bus at 70th Street and Fifth Avenue, he still had not answered the question. To one side of him was the park, green in the morning sun, with sharp, fleeting shadows; to the other side was the Frick, white and austere, as if abandoned to the dead. He thought for a moment of Verineer's Soldier and Young Girl Smiling, trying to remember the expression on the girl's face, the exact position of her hands around the cup, the red back of the faceless man. In his mind, he caught a glimpse of the blue map on the wall and the sunlight pouring through the window, so like the sunlight that surrounded him now. He was walking. He was crossing the street and moving eastward. At Madison Avenue he turned right and went south for a block, then turned left and saw where he was. "I seem to have arrived," he said to himself. He stood before the building and paused. It suddenly did not seem to matter anymore. He felt remarkably calm, as if everything had already happened to him. As he opened the door that would lead him into the lobby, he gave himself one last word of advice. "If all this is really happening," he said, "then I must keep my eyes open."

It was a woman who opened the apartment door. For some reason, Qui

The woman was thirty, perhaps thirty-five; average height at best; hips a touch wide, or else voluptuous, depending on your point of view; dark hair, dark eyes, and a look in those eyes that was at once self-contained and vaguely seductive. She wore a black dress and very red lipstick.

"Mr. Auster?" A tentative smile; a questioning tilt to the head.

“That's right," said Qui

"I'm Virginia Stillman," the woman began. "Peter's wife. He's been waiting for you since eight o'clock."

"The appointment was for ten," said Qui

"He's been frantic," the woman explained. "I've never seen him like this before. He just couldn't wait."

She opened the door for Qui

He found himself sitting on a sofa, alone in the living room. He remembered now that Mrs. Stillman had told him to wait there while she went to find her husband. He couldn't say how long it had been. Surely no more than a minute or two. But from the way the light was coming through the windows, it seemed to be almost noon. It did not occur to him, however, to consult his watch. The smell of Virginia Stillman's perfume hovered around him, and he began to imagine what she looked like without any clothes on. Then he thought about what Max Work might have been thinking, 'had he been there. He decided to light a cigarette. He blew the smoke into the room. It pleased him to watch it leave his mouth in gusts, disperse, and take on new definition as the light caught it.

He heard the sound of someone entering the room behind him. Qui

Peter Stillman walked into the room and sat down in a red velvet armchair opposite Qui