Adjacentland

by Rabindranath Maharaj

  I put the sketch on the table, poured out some porridge into a bowl and crumbled bits of bread into the mixture. When I was finished with my meal and was dusting away the crumbs, a swift glance at the sketch seemed to transform the zigzagging patterns into a cartoonist’s depiction of atmospheric electricity. Where I had seen this occurrence, I had no idea, but when I held up the drawing I got the crazy idea I had been trying to represent a swift, blurry motion. Perhaps some part of my brain was working covertly to tell me something. This might be utter nonsense but the more I stared at the wavy lines, the more certain I grew that just before I passed out, I had spotted some vaporous movement behind a shelf. I had assumed that Balzac tried to repair his damage by setting me upright on the chair, but was it possible that someone else had picked me off the floor? Apart from Balzac, the only other person I had ever seen in the library was the naked man on the stool, but I was certain that he would not move so quickly.

  The next morning, I tried to convince myself that Balzac’s business with me was done; that he had returned to wherever he had sprung; that the bamboo boomerang I carried would fend him off, yet I was extremely fearful as I made my way to the library. Twice I turned back. On the third attempt, I steeled myself by thinking that I should know if in this forsaken place I had a friend. Someone who might be able to fill in all the gaps in my recent past. Tell me how long I had been here and perhaps the manner in which I had spent my days. (On a related note, I realize that harnessing a traumatic incident to an account that lacks any personal details will perhaps feel incomplete. But you understand my situation.) When I arrived at the library, I stood by the door and called out with the hope of drawing out the person. And Balzac, too, if he were still around. I heard my voice echoing – the furthest iterations like tin drums – and I was reminded of how huge the building was. Eventually I walked inside with the boomerang in my jacket.

  She was sitting in one of the two reading rooms adjacent to the stockroom with her back to the window, wearing a white sundress that gave the illusion of light passing right through her. I didn’t show myself but she glanced up as if she was aware of my presence. I remained behind the shelf when she got up, walked over to a cart, plucked out its single book and held it to her face as if it would soon disintegrate. There was something graceful and tragic about her gestures and as I stared at her, I felt that it was not the book – a ragged-ear elephant with a broken tusk on its cover – that was in danger of dissolving. I wished I had bought my drawing pad. When I stepped out from behind the shelf, I saw a slight tremor ruffling her body and I decided to sit some distance away. I must have spent an hour or so there and even though she would have been aware of my gaze, not once did she look at me. But I kept a discreet observation. There was a kind of limpidity to all her gestures and the manner in which she wrung her hands and slumped into her chair gave an impression of bonelessness and subtly shifting flesh. I thought of a gossamer fish hiding beneath a coral reef’s limestone. I noticed, too, that she seemed to fade away whenever she leaned back out of the light. I wanted to say something to her but felt she would jump like a startled cricket if I got too close.

  I tried to think of some way I could begin a conversation and I wished I had some memory of how I may have handled this sort of thing. Eventually I got up and walked over. “Hello,” I told her. “I have never seen you in the library before. Are you new to the Compound?” When she did not reply, I added, “I don’t mean to be rude but I am curious. I might also be grateful. I was involved in a little incident the other day.”

  She seemed quite dismayed, although I could not say if this was due to my presence or to the memory of Balzac’s barbarity. I was dismayed myself when she got up with the book and replaced it on the shelf. And she did this with all the mis-aligned books and those on the floor, gathering, replacing and adjusting. Some she held against her chest as if they were special or had provoked some special memory. She seemed to fade with each step away from the window and then she disappeared entirely. I stood up and walked through the entire gloomy building; through the main room littered with boxes and torn-off covers, through the other reading room with its overturned tables and chairs, to the stockroom where I had climbed onto a stool to gaze at the town. But she was gone.

  The next day I brought one of the blank sheets from the Gladstone bag, hoping that I could get a more thorough idea of her from my sketch. Once more she was seated by the window, but she had hauled a desk before her and she was wearing some sort of mask or blinders. I dragged a chair to the opposite end of the room and if she heard, she gave no indication. Perhaps she was asleep; and that was how I drew her: with her arms limp on the desk and the light filtering through her body. When I was finished, I got up, still undecided as to whether I should make another attempt to begin a conversation. Eventually I walked over. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  There was no reaction and I felt stupid standing there. I decided to leave her alone.

  “Someone is always rearranging the books. Every three months I have to start over.”

  “Do you work here?” I asked her. “I thought the place was abandoned.” I noticed a book, The Worm Runners Digest, before her and I wondered how she was able to perform her tasks with blinders. “I can help, if you like.”

  “It’s hopeless. No one cares anymore.”

  I reached for the book and the jacket slipped off and I saw another title on the front cover. Adjacentland. The book was a mess of torn pages. “I am afraid this cannot be repaired.”

  “Nothing can be repaired. I was bruised so many times.” Her voice suited her appearance. It was thin and reedy and seemed perforated with dark gasps like someone breathing inside a winding tunnel.

  “I am sorry. Did someone harass you?”

  “Yes. They never allowed me to finish my job.”

  “Was it someone from the Compound? Is that why you are hiding here?”

  She offered a soft sigh. I thought of a baby wren being strangled. “I don’t know if it’s safe anymore.” She took off her mask and got up. Her eyes were milky and blank like a blind animal’s. “I need to gather my thoughts. I must go now. I have to find someone.”

  After she had hurried out of the library, I returned to my drawing pad and when I drew a series of fractal shapes tightening around her, I grew worried for her safety. I looked at the drawing and here at least I felt that my artistic flaws did not diminish the work. She seemed without bones and her limbs were positioned at impossible angles. The next day she was not in the library and I hung around for a while before I walked to the canteen to load up my stocks for the week. On a whim, I circled back to the library. She was at her usual spot, one arm raised at the side of her face in a protective gesture. When I walked over, she glanced up in alarm and then quickly looked down. “I am waiting.”

  She said this as if she was unsure, so I asked, “Are you waiting for someone? Is it the person you wanted to find the other day?”

  “I am alone now.” There was a nervous ripple in her voice. “Well, I won’t bother you. I just wanted to ask about the people who were bothering you.”

  “I am alone now,” she repeated. “All alone. There are no children anymore.” She glanced around with her milky eyes. “No, that’s not correct. There’s one. A girl.”

  “Is that who you were looking for?”

  “Yes, that’s right. But she, too, has disappeared. Did you see her? I used to be her mother. I am sure of it. Am I your mother, too?”

  “I am a bit too old,” I said surprised. “And no, I have not seen the girl or any other children. I don’t think there are children here.” She was crumbling her coat’s cuffs as if she was impatient for me to leave. “There is something I would like to know. Was it you who helped me the other day in the library?”

  “You had passed out.”

  “Yes. From an attack.”

  “You were sitting alone. You must have fainted and hit your face on the ground. Your left ear was bleeding.”

  “I was atta
cked. Did you not see a brute around?”

  “You were alone.” She seemed to be pleading. “All alone. I didn’t see any cannibals.”

  “Did you say cannibals? He may have left, then. In any event, I would like to thank you for helping me.”

  “I used to be a wet nurse. I tried to help as best as I could.” She said this in such a dispirited manner that I felt she had been cut adrift from her family at an early age and that she had never filled this void with stable friendships.

  “Do you work in the Compound, then? In a dispensary?”

  “I tried to help everyone in need. It was difficult. I couldn’t manage. So many died.”

  “The mothers or the children?” The question upset her even more, so I said, “I am sure you tried your best.”

  “I couldn’t keep up.” She shook her head and I imagined some terrible tragedy in her life. “I couldn’t keep up. They took away the ones I wanted to keep. They kept them sleeping forever. These poor children who had stopped dreaming. Why couldn’t they understand that?” Her voice seemed to hold a trace of accusation when she added, “Why are you here?”

  “The Compound? I am not sure. I was left here by someone, but I cannot remember if I had been tricked or drugged. The person may have been a friend, so perhaps I trusted him too much.”

  “What is trust?”

  “It’s when you place your faith in someone.”

  “Faith?”

  “It’s something you expect but cannot see. I suppose you can sense it.” Before she could ask, I said, “Sense is like faith in a way, but the outlines are clearer. Are you testing me?”

  “Maybe. Yes. Yes, I am. I don’t like when people put things in my head. I don’t even know what is real anymore.”

  I wanted to say, “Welcome to the club,” but she seemed too distressed. So I told her, “I come here to find out about things I have forgotten. Would you like me to leave?” She said nothing and I asked her, “Do you have any friends here?”

  “No one cares. There are no babies anymore. They have all been taken away. Haven’t you noticed?” She got up so suddenly I felt I had offended her in some way. And when I returned the following day, I decided I would not add to her distress by attempting a conversation. I fetched a casebook on infectious diseases from the shelf and sat at the corner of the main room. Fifteen minutes or so later she came out with a clutch of books that she replaced one by one on the shelf. Then she gathered a couple from the floor as gingerly as if she were gathering shrapnel. She moved with such tremulous forlornness I felt that when she disappeared behind some shelf she would be gone forever. I said nothing to her during this entire process and when she did not return from one of her trips, I got out my drawing pad. About forty minutes later, I looked at my sketch. It was of a woman kneeling, her face tilted slightly upward, her lips parted, her hair divided so the nape of her neck was visible. Her posture suggested a woman fulfilling some obligation from deeply honed reflexes. In the drawing, she seemed a frail automaton devoid of joy or passion.

  “Is it real?”

  I did not detect her approach and I could not determine if it was a question or statement as the three words seemed to have been wrung from layers of uncertainty. “I thought you had left.” She was still staring at my sketch so I told her, a bit disingenuously, “I don’t know who it is exactly. It might be anyone.”

  “Some...soma...somebody. Is it real?” she asked once more.

  “I can’t say. I sketch things to see connections I may have missed. I try to trick my mind.”

  She peered closer and I saw a scatter of moles on the back of her frail neck. From the angle, they looked like tiny holes that went right through her body. “Must I be like this? What has happened to me?” She covered her lips with her fingers and rushed away. I considered following her, but I had no idea what I would say. Nevertheless, I went to the canteen hoping I might spot her there. I saw a stocky woman with a metal name tag reading, “Barbita,” quarrelling with a group I had seen marching in the early mornings. I felt that if I were drawing a portrait of that group I would include outlandish costumes and capes and fancy headgears. The stocky woman would get a fishtail protruding from her mouth. She must have noticed my smile because she came over and told me angrily, “You think you are special, but no one here is better than anyone. Chew on that.”

  I left hurriedly.

  The following day the delicate woman was at her usual spot in the library but now she was smiling. This was encouraging and I walked over. “I saw you at the canteen yesterday,” she told me when I came up. “You were drawing something.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “But I was there.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Nevertheless, I wondered how I had missed her and I had this sudden image of her sitting alone in the gloom, this sheer woman who refracted light.

  She said nothing for a while and I returned to the book before me. “I have twilight vision. Would you like to know what I see here, all around us?”

  An hour later, alone in the library, I tried to recall some of the woman’s descriptions; and as I did so, I began to sketch amphibious creatures emerging from a swirling lagoon with multicoloured, fernlike plants and dust clouds embossed with unstable variegated colours. I had never done an illustration like this before and I wondered if this type of instability might be similar to a scene of all my memories tumbling out, unstoppable and overwhelming and pushing me further into darkness. You may laugh but that was how I felt. I walked to my room contemplating this and when I got there, I added to my drawing an almost imperceptible outline of the woman. I was curious about her real environment and I imagined the walls painted in a faint carmine colour and the curtains, a shade darker, blocking most of the external light. There would be abstract paintings on her wall and ghostly silver ornaments on the shelves and on the table. I felt she was careful to return everything to their precise positions when she was dusting or cleaning. Before I fell asleep, I imagined her kneeling before her bed with her ankles pressed tightly together. There were two pillows on her bed and sighs that looked like confetti were cascading around her.

  And this was the image in my mind when I walked to the library the next day. I decided I would ask her if she lived in the Compound or in one of the houses in the town that lay beyond the massive wall. Maybe I would bring up the subject by stating that I had recently discovered a layer of some corklike insulation on my walls. When I got to the reading room, I saw that she was once more wearing her blinders and I made a fair bit of noise as I dragged across my chair to sit opposite her. There was a fixed smile on her face and because her eyes were hidden, I could not determine if her expression was blissful or maniacal. Perhaps she was meditating, I thought.

  “I can see you there. You are wondering about the mask. It sharpens my senses.”

  “A recalibration. Like pirates wearing eye patches above deck to improve their vision in the darkened lower decks.”

  “Yes. That’s it exactly. How did you know of this?”

  “I have no idea,” I told her truthfully. “Maybe it’s something I read in a book and forgot about.”

  “How can you forget something like that?”

  I made a sudden decision. I told her, “My memory does not travel very far. I don’t know how far exactly, but its span exceeds eighteen days. Maybe it stops completely at three months or reforms into something else. I really do not know.”

  “It’s the same with me. Then everything that has been erased returns. Sharp and cutting with pools of blood and dried-up little babies, and aunts with spiteful eyes, and missing fathers.”

  Her response, morbid as it was, encouraged me to say, “Sometimes I worry that every new bit of information that I glean squeezes away an equivalent amount of memory. It’s as if I am being calibrated and rationed.”

  “So, are you afraid of learning anything new?”

  I thought for a while before I told her, “I am more interested in remembering forgotten details.
I don’t know if that counts. But I am never sure. To be truthful, there is little that I can be certain of.”

  “Was there an accident?”

  “If there was I have no memory of it. I would like to find out, though.”

  She still had her fixed, slightly maniacal smile when she asked, “Do you recall anything at all?”

  I felt it was safe to tell her what I had withheld from the three heads. “I believe there was a woman and a child. One was dead and the other was searching...I don’t know which...”

  “Did you kill your family?”

  “No! No, I would never do something like that. I am not capable. Besides, I am sure I would have some memory of their deaths and the funerals. It would be impossible to forget something like that. Maybe I was absent, away at work, in another city.” She pressed her hands against her face and her skin seemed to ripple like an alert animal. She appeared suddenly frightened so I told her of the drawings on my wall and the painting of a woman and her daughter with the inscription: The child is the heart of reason. I mentioned my decision to record each new day with the statement: Today is a new day and yesterday is the same day. “I have been trying to understand the significance of the drawings. I didn’t put them there, but they are all familiar. Maybe there are recurring patterns. Perhaps they are a sort of diary, a journal written by a –”

  “A lunatic?”

  I was disappointed. “No. Someone recovering from a coma. Or perhaps a man who had awakened drunk in an unfamiliar place. Someone in limbo.”