Travels in the Scriptorium Read Online Free Page B

into the other room, he is startled to see that his clothes have already been laid out on the bed. Remembering his conversation with James P. Flood and the mention of the word closet , he was hoping to catch Anna in the act of opening the closet door, if indeed the closet exists, in order to determine where it is located. Now, as his eyes scan the room, he sees no sign of it, and another mystery remains unsolved.
    He could, of course, ask Anna where it is, but once he sees Anna herself, sitting on the bed and smiling up at him, he is so moved to be in her presence again that the question escapes his mind.
    I’m beginning to remember you now, he says. Not everything, but little flashes, bits and pieces here and there. I was very young the first time I saw you, wasn’t I?
    About twenty-one, I think, Anna says.
    But I kept losing you. You’d be there for a few days, and then you’d vanish. A year would go by, two years, four years, and then you’d suddenly pop up again.
    You didn’t know what to do with me, that’s why. It took you a long time to figure it out.
    And then I sent you on your … your mission. I remember being frightened for you. But you were a real battler back in those days, weren’t you?
    A tough and feisty girl, Mr. Blank.
    Exactly. And that’s what gave me hope. If you hadn’t been a resourceful person, you never would have made it.
    Let me help you with your clothes, Anna says, glancing down at her watch. Time is marching on.
    The word marching induces Mr. Blank to think about his dizzy spells and earlier difficulties with walking, but now, as he travels the short distance from the threshold of the bathroom to the bed, he is encouraged to note that his brain is clear and that he feels in no danger of falling. With nothing to support the hypothesis, he attributes this improvement to the beneficent Anna, to the mere fact that she has been there with him for the past twenty or thirty minutes, radiating the affection he so desperately longs for.
    The clothes turn out to be all white: white cotton trousers, white button-down shirt, white boxer shorts, white nylon socks, and a pair of white tennis shoes.
    An odd choice, Mr. Blank says. I’m going to look like the Good Humor man.
    It was a special request, Anna replies. From Peter Stillman. Not the father, the son. Peter Stillman, Junior.
    Who’s he?
    You don’t remember?
    I’m afraid not.
    He’s another one of your charges. When you sent him out on his mission, he had to dress all in white.
    How many people have I sent out?
    Hundreds, Mr. Blank. More people than I can count.
    All right. Let’s get on with it. I don’t suppose it makes any difference.
    Without further ado, he unties the belt of the robe and lets the robe fall to the floor. Once again, he is standing naked in front of Anna, feeling not the slightest hint of embarrassment or modesty. Glancing down and pointing to his penis, he says: Look how small it is. Mr. Bigshot isn’t so big now, is he?
    Anna smiles and then pats the bed with the palm of her hand, beckoning him to sit down next to her. As he does so, Mr. Blank is once more thrust back into his early childhood, back to the days of Whitey the rocking horse and their long journeys together through the deserts and mountains of the Far West. He thinks about his mother and how she used to dress him like this in his upstairs bedroom with the morning sun slanting through the venetian blinds, and all at once, realizing that his mother is dead, probably long dead, he wonders if Anna hasn’t somehow become a new mother for him, even at his advanced age, for why else would he feel so comfortable with her, he who is generally so shy and self-conscious about his body in front of others?
    Anna climbs off the bed and crouches down in front of Mr. Blank. She begins with the socks, slipping one over his left foot and then the other one over his right foot, moves on to the undershorts, which she slides up his legs and, as Mr. Blank stands to