Mr. Vertigo by Paul Auster Page A

from Wichita, ain’t you?” I said, realizing why her face looked so familiar to me.
    “That’s right,” she said. “And you’re the little boy who lost his way in the storm.”
    “That was a long time ago,” I said, extricating myself from the master’s arms and finally standing up. “I can’t say I remember much about it.”
    “No,” she said, “you probably don’t. But I do.”
    “Not only is Mrs. Witherspoon a friend of the family,” the master said, “she’s our number-one champion and business partner. Just so you know the score, Walt. I want you to bear that in mind while she’s here with us. The food that feeds you, the clothes that clothe you, the fire that warms you—all that comescourtesy of Mrs. Witherspoon, and it would be a sad day if you ever forgot it.”
    “Don’t worry,” I said, suddenly feeling some spring in my soul again. “I ain’t no slob. When a handsome lady enters my house, I know how a gentleman is supposed to act.”
    Without missing a beat, I turned my eyes in Mrs. Witherspoon’s direction, and with all the poise and bravura I could muster, flashed her the sexiest, most preposterous wink ever beheld by womankind. To her credit, Mrs. Witherspoon neither blushed nor stammered. Giving as good as she got, she let out a brief laugh, and then, as cool and collected as an old bawd, tossed back a playful wink at me. It was a moment I still cherish, and the instant it happened, I knew we were going to be friends.
    I had no idea what the master’s arrangement with her was, and at the time I didn’t give the matter much thought. What concerned me was that Mrs. Witherspoon was there and that her presence relieved me of my job as nursemaid and bottle-washer. She took things in hand that first morning, and for the next three weeks the household ran as smoothly as a new pair of roller skates. To be honest, I didn’t think she’d be capable of it, at least not when I saw her in that fancy coat and those expensive gloves. She looked like a woman who was used to having servants wait on her, and though she was pretty enough in a fragile sort of way, her skin was too pale for my taste and there was too little meat on her bones. It took me some time to adjust to her, since she didn’t fit into any of the female categories I was familiar with. She wasn’t a flapper or a hussy, she wasn’t a meek house-wifey blob, she wasn’t a schoolmarm or a virgin battle-ax—but somehow a bit of all of them, which meant that you could never quite pin her down or predict what her next move was going to be. The only thing I felt certain about was that the master wasin love with her. He always grew very still and soft-spoken when she entered the room, and more than once I caught him staring at her with a far-off look in his eyes when her head was turned the other way. Since they slept together in the same bed every night, and since I heard the mattress creak and bounce with a certain regularity, I took it for granted that she felt the same way about him. What I didn’t know was that she had already turned him down in marriage three times—but even if I had known, I doubt it would have made much difference. I had other things on my mind just then, and they were a hell of a lot more important to me than the ups and downs of the master’s love life.
    I kept to myself as much as possible during those weeks, hiding out in my room as I explored the mysteries and terrors of my new gift. I did everything I could to tame it, to come to terms with it, to study its exact dimensions and accept it as a fundamental part of myself. That was the struggle: not just to master the skill, but to absorb its gruesome and shattering implications, to plunge into the maw of the beast. It had marked me with a special destiny, and I would be set apart from others for the rest of my life. Imagine waking up one morning to discover that you have a new face, and then imagine the hours you would have to spend in front of the