“But I know the end is coming. The disappearances used to happen suddenly, without warning, but I had premonitions before my leg and arm disappeared. I could feel my skin stiffening and growing numb. So I can tell something is going to disappear. It may be a few days from now or a few weeks, but it will come. And I’m frightened. Not because I’ll disappear and cease to exist, but because I’ll have to leave you. The thought terrifies me.”
“You mustn’t be afraid,” he said, laying me down on the bed. “I’ll keep you safe, here in my secret room.”
Chapter 27
Sometimes it strikes me as strange that I don’t hate him more. I should curse him and beat him, find any way I can to do him harm, though I know it would do no good. After all, he deceived me, stole my voice, and shut me up in this place.
But for all that, I don’t really hate him. In fact, when he shows me the occasional kindness, I even feel a certain affection for him: when he turns the handle of my spoon to make it easier to pick up, or wipes away soap bubbles that threaten to get into my eyes, or untangles my hair from a zipper as I’m changing my clothes. Compared to the truly horrible things he has done, these are trifles barely worth mentioning. And yet, when I see his fingers working just for my benefit, I can’t help feeling a kind of gratitude. I know it’s foolish, but that’s my honest reaction and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Perhaps these feelings are proof that I’m becoming more and more attached to this room. Things I felt in the outside world have faded away here, transformed into emotions more suited to this place.
I find, too, that my eyesight has recently started to fail. The mountain of typewriters, the bed, the bell, the various items in the drawer of the desk—all of it appears only dimly, as though shrouded in a dark veil. As does the outside world, glimpsed through the crack by the clock. Even on a bright and sunny afternoon, the grass in the church garden seems gray and hazy, the people gathered there indistinguishable from the shadows.
As a result, I’m forced to move with added care no matter what I’m doing—even things as simple as washing my face or changing my clothes. I find I’m constantly tripping over the tools used to care for the clock or bumping into the chair. I’m particularly tense when he’s here. Not that he gets angry when I show my clumsiness. But by the same token he never helps me, content always to watch in silence with that peculiar smile on his face. A cold smile, like the stroke of an icy brush down my side.
Though my eyes get progressively weaker, for some reason I can always see him with great clarity. I can see every movement his fingers make, while everything else is dim and vague.
One day, something unusual happened. Not long after he had gone down to teach a class of beginners, I heard the sound of footsteps coming up the tower stairs. They were slower and more deliberate than his, and they seemed to stop on one of the landings below, as if hesitating, before starting up again.
I wonder who this could be. Do they intend to come all the way up here?
I had no idea what to do. Was this person a friend or an enemy? What sort of relationship did she—for the sound of the footsteps made me certain it was a woman—have to my captor? Did she know about me? In just a few seconds, these questions ran through my head, throwing me into a state of confusion. I realized that in all this time no one but he had entered this room. Nor had it ever once occurred to me, while I was a student, that I might want to ascend to the top of the tower.
From the sound of the footsteps I was sure not only that the person approaching was a woman but that she was young. The tapping on the wooden stairs, like the pecking of a bird’s beak, suggested that she was wearing high heels.
Her footsteps seemed to convey her hesitation, as though she was fearful of what she might find at the top of this endless staircase. As she approached the clock room, the interval between each step lengthened. Perhaps she was weary, rather than confused or afraid, since the stairway to the clock tower was narrow and steep and terribly long. In any case, she had at last reached the door.
She knocked three times. I was sitting on the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees. I had never noticed the clear, dry sound of the old wooden door, since he never knocked but made his appearance after a great rattling of the keys on his ring.
I realized this might be my best chance to escape. A student in the typing class had come all the way up here, perhaps having heard suspicious noises or perhaps out of simple curiosity. Even though I couldn’t call out, I could run to the door and knock on it to let her know of my existence. Then, surely, she would go and find help in the church or call the police. She would force the lock or take some other action to rescue me. And I would rejoin the outside world.
But I remained crouched on the floor, unable to move a muscle. My heart was pounding, my lips trembling. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
Hurry now! If you aren’t quick she’ll go away!
In my head I screamed these words to myself. But something held me back.
No! Keep still! How can you explain this to her? Would she believe you? And how would you even tell her? It’s not just words you lack. Your eyes and ears, every part of your body has been deformed to fit this room—that is, to fit his purposes. And even if she did help you, do you really believe you’d get back all the things you’ve lost?
Covering my ears with both hands, I hid my face in my lap, held my breath, and prayed the girl would give up and go back down the stairs. I knew now that I lacked the courage to rejoin the outside world.
I’m not sure how long I stayed that way. She jiggled the lock and turned the handle, and then, with a sigh, she moved away from the door. The echoes of her footsteps receded, spiraling down the staircase. I was still unable to move, even after they had long since vanished altogether, frozen by the fear that the slightest noise would bring her running back up the stairs.
It was not until evening that I found myself wanting to peek out from behind the clock and look down on the churchyard. Needless to say I was unable to pick out the woman who had knocked on my door. In the garden below, the students leaving the afternoon classes mingled with those arriving for the evening. But they were no more than shadowy masses, my weakened eyes unable to distinguish their features or clothing or shoes. The only thing that was clearly visible—indeed painfully etched on my retinas—was his form as he sat on a bench, chatting pleasantly with his students.
That night, he appeared, bringing with him more strange articles of clothing, though these were not as elaborate or refined as the earlier ones had been. Like the other garments, these were not the kind of things being worn in the outside world, but the fabrics were more ordinary than usual, there were no decorations of any kind, and the stitching was crude. I found myself feeling disappointed.
“Did someone pay you a visit today?” he asked abruptly. Startled, I dropped the clothes he had just handed to me. How did he know about the woman who had come to the door? If he did know, why hadn’t he stopped her? Why risk revealing such an important secret?… Confused, I looked down at the floor.
“Did someone knock at the door?” he asked. I gave a slight nod. “Then why didn’t you ask her for help?” he added as he began gathering up the clothes I had dropped. “You might have found lots of ways to alert her that you’re here. You could have knocked back, or dragged a chair across the floor, thrown a typewriter against the wall.”
I stood still, unsure how to reply.