Can’t you read? Are you illiterate?
Martina still didn’t understand what he was talking about. If he’d asked if she couldn’t hear, she’d have understood, but not if she couldn’t read. Then an older woman standing behind her took Martina by the back of her jacket and pulled her out of the bus. She pointed her index finger at a sign affixed to the bus.
After 7:00 p.m. show all passes when entering bus, the woman read to her in a loud, clear voice like an elementary school teacher. Martina said quietly: I know how to read.
This made the bus driver even angrier:
Everyone who breaks laws is illiterate. I don’t mean that all illiterates are law-breakers, but every law is written down somewhere, that’s for sure, and…
After this incident Martina spent three days in bed without eating.
You ought to shield your eyes as well, then nothing can happen to you. For instance, you could always hold a book in front of your face, I said to comfort her.
Martina didn’t say anything. After a while she went into the kitchen, placed her hands on the handle of the kettle and began to cry. When the palms of a person’s hands touch something warm, it sometimes happens that the person’s feelings melt and spill out of her mouth. I knew there was a similar scene in the missing novel. The scene involved a woman who cried several times during the novel. I was glad I couldn’t remember her life story any more.
I visited our new neighbor the day before yesterday, Martina said all at once. He said he used to study psychology. Maybe he can help me.
Martina blew her nose, which made her appear to be smiling. I stood up because I didn’t want to hear anything more about the neighbor. It wasn’t clear to me why he had told Martina about his studies.
The typewriter’s over there. You can go on writing your novel, Martina said in a disinterested voice, gesturing with her chin in the direction I was already looking. Immediately, I was filled with hatred for the word “novel.”
I’m not writing a novel, I said, horrified, and Martina looked at me in surprise.
That evening it began to rain. I sat at the typewriter, hitting the Z key over and over. I found the shape of this letter unappealing, but my fingers insisted on typing, and since I couldn’t think of a single sentence, I had no choice but to keep typing the same letter again and again.
Why haven’t you come? I told you to come, I said aloud. Suddenly it occurred to me whom I was talking to. Simon was gone, and Z wasn’t in the apartment either. There was nothing to stop the voice from returning. Without it, I thought, I would never be able to formulate a sentence again.
Z one
Z ither
Z ero
I typed the letter Z separately from the rest of the word. Gradually the keys of the typewriter began to feel lighter. I left the Z out:
one
ither
ero
I couldn’t stop typing:
inc
enith
ygote
ephyr
ealot
ombie
ed
I typed and typed, not noticing that the door had opened. Z stood there, coughing. When he took my hands, they lost all desire to type.
For some reason I can’t seem to write anything at all today, I said before he had time to ask.
10
The next day the voice of the novel returned to me.
As if in a trance, I typed an endless chain of Z-less words. Then I took a new sheet of paper and typed a row of Zs. When I tore up the page and threw it into the wastepaper basket, I heard a woman’s voice behind me. At first I thought someone was talking on the street. Then I realized it was the voice of the novel, for I heard it not with my eardrums but with some other part of my body I was unable to localize. When I closed the lid of the typewriter, the voice became more distinct. I slipped into bed and turned out the light. I remained lying there — don’t know how long — and didn’t notice when the door opened and Z appeared beside my bed.
Are you sleeping?
The voice disappeared when Z spoke, and my sense of hearing was immediately restricted to my eardrums.
No, I’m not asleep.
What are you doing if you aren’t sleeping?
I went on lying there like a stone and gave no answer. I was afraid that Z, too, had heard the woman’s voice and would call me a traitor. But why? Why shouldn’t I listen to the voice? Z scrutinized my face like a doctor looking for a mark on my skin. I myself could not feel my own body, though gradually I was able to perceive the voice again. It was as if the room contracted when it spoke more quickly. When the voice grew louder, the room expanded and then existed only as the voice. In this room created by the voice, I could not find my own body. The room was empty and had neither walls nor furniture. It consisted only of a voice. Didn’t it resemble the apartment I’d wished for?
Time passed. I awoke from the sleep that was not sleep and saw that an alarm clock and Z were lying beside me. I had never before seen anything in such extreme proximity. Z, who woke up shortly afterward, picked up the clock and shook it like a salt shaker. Then he asked me once more if I was asleep. When I said no, he asked why I was lying there like a stone. I sat up and found my arms and head much heavier than before. I could hear the voice only in my head. On the small table next to the bed lay a stone. I picked it up and shook it several times, the way you shake a salt shaker. The stone made a strange sound. Was it hollow on the inside? Z stood up and started walking back and forth in the room. I said to him:
I’ve always wanted to become a stone. Besides, I’m still sick.
Z smiled as if in relief Most likely he’d thought I was bored with him. I wasn’t really sick, but since otherwise it wouldn’t have been acceptable for me to imitate a stone, I decided to be sick. It occurred to me that I might really be sick.
I have an ear infection. I keep hearing a woman’s voice. It’s because of the infection, you see.
Z grinned, took my hand and said:
I know. I know everything. But we’ll have to be thrifty with our speech and use our heads. Don’t tell anyone you’re sick. Don’t call your illness “ear infection.” “Ear infection” sounds ridiculous. You mustn’t ever say anything ridiculous about yourself. Don’t talk with other women about the voice. I’ll tell you next week where our work goes from here. I have to go away for a week to collect the materials for the project. In the meantime, don’t speak to anyone. Stay here alone until I come back. I told you right from the start that I’m planning a project. And this project can be completed only with your help.
The next day I went downtown to buy a typewriter. Since I couldn’t visit Martina any longer, I needed one of my own. I would have to turn in another article for my series in the Japanese magazine soon. The deadline was approaching, and I felt as if I would be able to write again. Moreover, now that Z was gone, the voice had returned as well.
I went to a big department store downtown. While I was comparing various typewriters and studying the brochures, I remembered what Martina had said to me. She thought I was writing a novel. My hatred for the word “novel” flared up again. Of course “novel” is only a sort of product label, like “typewriter,” and a book has to be called “novel” or “stories” or “poems,” since if you can’t categorize it in some way it’s impossible to decide on the size of the print run, the target audience, marketing strategies and price. Therefore the word was very important. I hated it all the same.