Travels in the Scriptorium by Paul Auster

telephone starts to ring, and once again he is forced to interrupt his reading of the typescript. Cursing under his breath as he extricates himself from the chair, he hobbles slowly across the room toward the bedside table, moving with difficulty because of his recent injuries, and so plodding is his progress that he doesn’t pick up the receiver until the seventh ring, whereas he was nimble enough to answer the previous call from Flood on the fourth.
    What do you want? Mr. Blank says harshly, as he sits down on the bed, suddenly feeling a flutter of the old dizziness whirling around inside him.
    I want to know if you’ve finished the story, a man’s voice calmly answers.
    Story? What story is that?
    The one you’ve been reading. The story about the Confederation.
    I didn’t know it was a story. It sounds more like a report, like something that really happened.
    It’s make-believe, Mr. Blank. A work of fiction.
    Ah. That explains why I’ve never heard of that place. I know my mind isn’t working too well today, but I thought Graf’s manuscript must have been found by someone years after he wrote it and then copied out by a typist.
    An honest mistake.
    A stupid mistake.
    Don’t worry about it. The only thing I need to know is whether you’ve finished it or not.
    Almost. Just a few more pages to go. If you hadn’t interrupted me with this goddamned call, I’d probably be at the end by now.
    Good. I’ll come round in fifteen or twenty minutes, and we can begin the consultation.
    Consultation? What are you talking about?
    I’m your doctor, Mr. Blank. I come to see you every day.
    I don’t remember having a doctor.
    Of course not. That’s because the treatment is beginning to take effect.
    Does my doctor have a name?
    Farr. Samuel Farr.

    Farr … Hmm … Yes, Samuel Farr … You wouldn’t happen to know a woman named Anna, would you?
    We’ll talk about that later. For now, the only thing you have to do is finish the story.
    All right, I’ll finish the story. But when you come to my room, how will I know it’s you? What if it’s someone else pretending to be you?
    There’s a picture of me on your desk. The twelfth one in from the top of the pile. Take a good look at it, and when I show up, you won’t have any trouble recognizing me.

Now Mr. Blank is sitting in the chair again, hunched over the desk. Rather than look for Samuel Farr’s picture in the pile of photographs, as he was instructed to do, he reaches for the pad and ballpoint pen and adds another name to his list:
James P. Flood
Anna
David Zimmer
Peter Stillman, Jr.
Peter Stillman, Sr.
Fanshawe
Man with house
Samuel Farr
     
     
    Pushing aside the pad and pen, he immediately picks up the typescript of the story, forgetting all about his intention to look for Samuel Farr’s photograph, in the same way that he has long since forgotten about looking for the closet that is supposedly in the room. The last pages of the text read as follows:

    The long journey to Ultima gave me ample time to reflect upon the nature of my mission. A series of coachmen took over the reins at two-hundred-mile intervals, and with nothing for me to do but sit in the carriage and stare out at the landscape, I felt a growing sense of dread as I neared my destination. Ernesto Land had been my comrade and intimate friend, and I had the greatest trouble accepting Joubert’s verdict that he had turned traitor to a cause he had defended all his life. He had remained in the military after the Consolidations of Year 31, continuing his work as an intelligence officer under the aegis of the Ministry of War, and whenever he had dined with us at our house or I had met with him for an afternoon meal at one of the taverns near the Ministry Esplanade, he had talked with enthusiasm about the inevitable victory of the Confederation, confident that all we had dreamed of and fought for since our earliest youth would finally come to pass. Now, according to Joubert’s agents in Ultima, not only