Mr. Vertigo by Paul Auster

least notion that it was about to happen. Very slowly, I felt my body rise off the floor. The movement was so natural, so exquisite in its gentleness, it wasn’t until I opened my eyes that I understood my limbs were touching only air. I was not far off the ground—no more than an inch or two—but I hung there without effort, suspended like the moon in the night sky, motionless and aloft, conscious only of the air fluttering in and out of my lungs. I can’t say how long I hovered like that, but at a certain moment, with the same slowness and gentleness as before, I eased back to the ground. Everything had been drained out of me by then, and my eyes were already shut. Without so much as a single thought about what had just taken place, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, sinking like a stone to the bottom of the world.
    I woke to the sound of voices, the shuffling of shoes against the bare wood floor. When I opened my eyes, I found myself looking directly into the blackness of Master Yehudi’s left trouser leg. “Greetings, kid,” he said, nudging me with his foot. “Fortywinks on the cold kitchen floor. Not the best place for a nap if you want to stay healthy.”
    I tried to sit up, but my body felt so dull and turgid, it took all my strength just to lift myself onto one elbow. My head was a trembling mass of cobwebs, and no matter how hard I rubbed and blinked my eyes, I couldn’t get them to focus properly.
    “What’s the trouble, Walt?” the master continued. “You haven’t been walking in your sleep, have you?”
    “No, sir. Nothing like that.”
    “Then why so glum? You look like you’ve been to a funeral.”
    An immense sadness swept through me when he said that, and I suddenly felt myself on the verge of tears. “Oh, master,” I said, grabbing hold of his leg with both arms and pressing my cheek against his shin. “Oh, master, I thought you’d left me. I thought you’d left me, and were never coming back.”
    The moment those words left my lips, I understood that I was wrong. It wasn’t the master who had caused this feeling of vulnerability and despair, it was the thing I’d done just prior to falling asleep. It all came back in a vivid, nauseating rush: the moments I’d spent off the ground, the certainty that I had done what most certainly I could not have done. Rather than fill me with ecstasy or gladness, this breakthrough overpowered me with dread. I didn’t know myself anymore. I was inhabited by something that wasn’t me, and that thing was so terrible, so alien in its newness, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. I let myself cry instead. I let the tears come pouring out of me, and once I started, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stop.
    “Dear boy,” the master said, “my dear, sweet boy.” He lowered himself to the ground and gathered me in his arms, patting my back and hugging me close to him as I went on weeping. Then, after a pause, I heard him speak again—but he was nolonger addressing his words to me. For the first time since regaining consciousness, I understood that another person was in the room.
    “He’s the bravest lad who ever was,” the master said. “He’s worked so hard, he’s worn himself out. A body can bear just so much, and I’m afraid the poor little fellow’s all done in.”
    That was when I finally looked up. I lifted my head off Master Yehudi’s lap, cast my eyes about for a moment, and there was Mrs. Witherspoon, standing in the light of the doorway. She was wearing a crimson overcoat and a black fur hat, I remember, and her cheeks were still flush from the winter cold. The instant our eyes met, she broke into a smile.
    “Hello, Walt,” she said.
    “And hello to you, ma’am,” I said, sniffing back the last of my tears.
    “Meet your fairy godmother,” the master said. “Mrs. Witherspoon has come to rescue us, and she’ll be staying in the house for a little while. Until things get back to normal.”
    “You’re the lady