Jesus, Ana, I said. That’s the kind of stuff you think about?
I can’t help it, she said. It just happens.
But are you sure it’s a good idea, all this darkness? It doesn’t sound very nice.
Nice. What do you think this is, a picnic in the woods?
But you shouldn’t be all alone in the dark. Isn’t anybody going to come and visit?
Sure they will.
Are you okay, though? Are you sure you can handle it?
Of course I can handle it. It’s a performance. It’s supposed to be difficult.
But thirty days in the dark. Sounds kind of dangerous.
Are you even listening? That’s the whole point.
Yeah, okay, fair enough. I guess you know what you’re doing.
Of course I know what I’m doing. Everything’s fine, I’m doing great. It’ll all be alright.
Well, okay, if you say so.
I’ll let you know if I feel like company, okay?
Okay. Just look after yourself in there.
How many times do I have to say it? There’s nothing to look after.
Then she hung up, and it was only as I entered the shelves of books on geometry and set theory that I realized how nervous I was on Ana’s behalf. For one thing, I was sure she was lying about her emotional state. She’d spoken briskly and with confidence, but all my senses told me she was afraid, and was trying to reach out to me in her own proud way. There was something shrill and clenched behind those tough words, something quivering behind her teeth. Until our conversation that day I’d thought of Timemachine as an innocent performance, some silly little game, but all of a sudden the piece reminded me of some mad professor’s experiment. There was something alchemical about it, the way Ana was trying to break down time, seeking desperately to forge a situation where its rules were lifted, like she was some medieval enchanter. Barricading herself into a dark room for several weeks—wasn’t that a kind of self-harm? Wasn’t it a cry for help? Of course it was. Ana had roped herself into a kamikaze project, and why had she called me and told me about her nightmares if not because she was afraid and needed help?
That afternoon at the library I googled Timemachine’s curator, and when I found Irene’s email address I wrote her immediately, explaining my concerns. Irene answered promptly to say that Ana knew what she was doing, that she’d be fine, but that I should definitely let her know if she was feeling ill. It was a tactful way of saying that she didn’t take me seriously and couldn’t care less about my worries, and frankly, who could blame her? I was just a young intern with no experience with performance art, and no matter what I said Irene would never listen to my warnings.
For a while I tried to forget about Timemachine and went back to my books, but all I could think about were prisoners in hoods and blindfolds, hostages hidden in dark attics, children in cells buried deep under basements, and Ana, scratching her arms until they bled. I couldn’t leave her in the lurch when she clearly needed help, but Ana and Irene would never take my advice. So what could I do? I mulled it over for a few hours, imagining Ana alone in the dark on her mattress, and at last I had an idea. If I could prove that Timemachine was harmful to Ana, if I could find scientific evidence that the project wasn’t ethically defensible, then Irene might listen to me and call a halt to this insane experiment. That was my plan, and over the following hours I shuttled to and fro between the bookshelves and the yellowish, discolored computers, sourcing collections of articles on sensory deprivation, on psychopathy in isolated prisoners, on cognitive disturbances among crew members on submarines. As I read psychiatric journals about the traumatizing effects of solitude and darkness, I edged further out onto the scientific fringe. I skimmed dissertations on chronobiology, dissertations on temporal perception, and when the librarian flicked the lights on and off for the third time, I was the only one left in the reading room.
That evening as we lay in bed, I told Lærke about a psychology experiment I’d read about, conducted at McGill in the 1950s. They’d had the idea to test how people would react if all their senses were cut off, so at the beginning of the experiment the test subjects were given dark goggles and earmuffs and had cardboard tubes tied around their hands so they couldn’t feel anything. With all their senses shut down, the subjects were alone with their thoughts, and after a few hours they began to hallucinate. Small pinpricks of light, at first, and simple geometric shapes, but soon the hallucinations became more complex. They saw repeated abstract patterns that appeared as if papered onto a wall, rows of yellow men in black hats, and finally they saw whole scenes or ceremonies—a procession of squirrels marching along with sacks over their shoulders, prehistoric animals rambling through the jungle—and no matter how hard the test subjects tried, they couldn’t stop the visions. One man saw nothing but dogs. Another only spectacles. Several of them heard voices, one saw the sun rise over a church to the sound of clanging bells, another felt like he was getting electric shocks, and a third that his arm was being pelted with shots from a miniature spaceship hovering around him. After two days nearly all the test subjects were worn thin, and the researchers had to abandon the experiment.
It was an unexpected outcome, and at McGill the psychologists debated what had happened. One group of researchers claimed the brain created meaning where there was none. When there was nothing to see or hear, when next to no signals were coming from the nervous system and all was darkened chaos, the brain began to piece the scraps into a reality of sorts. Evidently that was how consciousness worked. It found patterns where there were no patterns, spun sense out of shadow, and soon conjured a reality of illusions, a universe of the imagination, a little world all its own. It was a dizzying thought, and I lay with my arms around Lærke and tried to work out how much of our own reality was a reflection of the true, physical world and how much was invented by our imagination. Every single day our senses absorbed millions of sounds and sights and scents, but how could we distinguish between these genuine signals and the tales our minds scripted out of them? It was an exhausting question. I grew tired at the thought, and I guess Lærke felt the same way. As I talked her breathing grew slower, her body somehow heavier, and when I was sure she was asleep I pulled my arm from her grip and sat down at my desk.
That night I read a research paper about fear and paranoia among prisoners in solitary confinement, then I skimmed a dissertation about hallucinations among long-haul pilots, getting more anxious all the while. A woman whose father had hanged himself, who’d grown up in a home atrophied into misery and shame and hand-rolled cigarettes—was that a woman who should be living alone in a dark room for several weeks? No, it was madness. It was only a question of time before Ana lost her mind, and I swore I’d do whatever I could to get her out of Timemachine with her wits intact.
Early the next morning I wrote a long email to Ana and Irene, laying out my concerns. I attached summaries of articles and dissertations, and spent the rest of the day telling Lærke about the problems with Timemachine. But my misgivings didn’t stop Ana, of course, and on Friday evening she opened the show. I arrived late to the blacked-out opening, and for a few minutes I stood under cover of darkness, listening to Ana’s voice. From the entrance I could hear her introducing her guests to each other, the sound of laughter and cheerful voices. It was like people spoke more freely in the dark. The white noise of age and appearance was switched off and the tone sharpened, all small-talk about jobs and art projects sieved out. A woman was talking about a dream or a fantasy that had tormented her as a child, a nightmare about fumbling down the corridor in her grandmother’s basement, while around the corner crept the night or the dark, and when she went back up the stairs it followed her like a shadow. Or, no, like an imaginary friend, she said, and as a joint was passed around, an Australian began to wheeze frantically for air and said he had to go outside for a minute. There was nothing else I could do. The exhibition had already taken on a life of its own, and I walked farther into the room, navigating like a
bat by the echo of Ana’s voice, and when I reached her I laid a hand on her shoulder and wished her luck with the show.
Thanks, she said. See how well we set it up? They’re tiny little beasts, those photons, they get in everywhere, but it really is dark in here.
Have any critics been to take a look?
Yeah, there were a couple, I think.
Awesome, Ana, congratulations. By the way, my brother said he’d try and drop in later.
Oh yeah?
Yes, he really likes your work.
You sure about that?
Of course. Why else would he invite you to his exhibitions?
To fill his quota of Eastern Europeans.
What, did he say that?
Ana said nothing, but I pictured her shrugging or smiling a private smile.
Oh, you’re kidding, I said.
Maybe. But you shouldn’t believe everything that man says.
What do you mean by that?
I mean, if I believed everything he said we wouldn’t be standing here.
Why not?
Because he said you were bad company.
What? That I was bad company?
Yep. You.
What exactly did he say?
Are you sure you want to know?
Yeah, of course I do.
Well, okay, said Ana, and she told me about the lunch meeting my brother had invited her to. Evidently he wanted to get in touch with a Romanian conceptual painter, an ancient woman with a studio in Bucharest, and once they’d finished their salads or quiches or sandwiches, he asked Ana whether she knew the woman. Ana didn’t, but her friend Sorin did, and after taking down Sorin’s email address my brother ordered coffee and dessert, and that was when he said he was a little worried about me and Ana. I don’t know what you’ve been telling my brother, he said with a smile, but he talks about nothing but time travel and mathematicians and Ceaușescu. And then Ana nodded or shrugged, or maybe just stared at him with dead Eastern European eyes, and he said: My little brother . . . well, he tends to develop these fascinations with people. You should take care. He’ll just end up burning his fingers, and yours in the bargain. Ana didn’t understand a word of this, so she asked him what he meant, and so my brother explained that she shouldn’t let herself be flattered by my attention. Right now you’re probably intriguing and exotic, he said, but remember to look out for yourself. My brother’ll want a taste of you, he’ll want to hear about your experiences—basically he wants stories he can tell his little friends—but his attention, well, that’s a fickle thing.
What? I said, laughing. This had to be a weird kind of Romanian joke.
I thought it was strange too, said Ana. But he wasn’t completely off the mark.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Well, there’s a touch of the vampire about you. Don’t you think? You like sucking stories out of me. All my exotic stories.
What are you talking about? It’s not like that.
Oh, come on. If you’re being completely honest, isn’t that what it’s about? Tasting a woman with a bit of mystery, an artist like the ones your brother fucks. You’re like your brother, aren’t you? Like a slightly subpar replica of your brother.
I didn’t know what to say, and suddenly my face felt hot. Through the dark I tried to make out her eyes, but there was nothing to see, and for a moment both of us were silent. Around us the guests were talking loudly, out on the street a truck roared by, and I felt like telling her she shouldn’t smear my brother like that, behind his back; or maybe I should have flounced out, done all the stuff you’re supposed to do in a dramatic scene, but I kept standing there, dithering and lightheaded.
Hey, I’m just teasing, she said, putting her hand on my shoulder.
Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m just going to get a beer.
She said okay and patted me on the back, a peculiar gesture, like I was a pony or a dog, and I blundered over toward the sound of beer cans being opened. For a while I stood at the drinks table, listening to conversations, peering into the dark, and wondering if I ought to leave. I didn’t owe Ana anything; I could vanish out into the city without looking back and never speak to her again, but who was I trying to fool? I’d been in New York five months, and Ana was the only person I knew apart from Lærke and my brother. She might be toying with me, but I couldn’t just cut her out of my life. I was already too deep into her story, I couldn’t put it down without knowing the ending, and so I drained my beer and took a final lap around the room. I greeted Irene’s voice and said a nice goodbye to Ana, and then I followed the woozy Australian out of the gallery, and for five minutes, until his girlfriend arrived and calmed him down, I watched him walking in circles and muttering to himself, confused and afraid.
A few days after Timemachine opened, my brother called. He’d just got back from his trip around Europe, and he asked if we could meet at one of the new galleries that appeared and reappeared like stubble on Ridgewood’s chin. His plans for the fall were now in place, he said. There was a photo exhibition someone’d recommended, we could check that out, and then we could discuss projects and ideas.
When I arrived at the gallery that evening he still hadn’t shown up, and I wove through the jam-packed room and looked at the photographs. The work was by an American photographer. Every surface in the gallery was papered with images of naked young people, and the room hummed with an intense, almost cultish atmosphere. Young people were everywhere, drinking beer and chatting to other young people, while from walls and ceilings even more young people stared down at us. There was something self-consumptively orgiastic about it, and I settled by the window and looked at the clouds that were puffing up outside, heavy and black.
While I kept an eye out for my brother, I thought about what he’d said to Ana. Or, who knows, maybe he didn’t say it, because why would he warn Ana against me? It didn’t seem credible. We’d always been honest with each other, and we’d never fought, not since I was eight, anyway, and forbidden to enter his room. What would he get out of betraying me like that? No, I couldn’t make it fit; but one of them was hiding something. Either Ana was lying or my brother was making a fool of me, but I had no proof one way or the other, only gestures, guesswork, and secondhand tales, so that evening I decided to forget about it and never bring it up again.
Still, I noticed a hesitation in my voice when my brother walked through the door ten minutes later, did a lap of the gallery, and flung his arms out at the photographs.
Decor, he said. Adornment, empty calories.
Looks pretty good, though. Don’t you think?
It’s pictures of beautiful young people. Of course it looks good. But where the hell’s he going with it?
I had no idea, but my brother did, and he said there was nothing at stake in this exhibition, that it was ornamentation and retinal art, a game for wealthy people’s idiot kids. He said the photographer’s only concern was what rich people wanted in their living rooms, what rich people wanted in their holiday homes, and that the last thing the world needed was more pictures of naked pretty people. I could see that, of course—he did have a point—and I asked him what, then, made a good piece of art. Was it was better, for instance, when Ana lived by another calendar or stayed in the dark for weeks on end?
Better, he said. Better relative to what? It’s not a competition.
He went on to explain that it wasn’t a matter of good or bad art. It was a matter of asking the right questions, of broadening the horizons of the possible, and when I asked him what that meant he steered me into a corner of the gallery and showed me a picture on his phone. It looked like a pile of burned wood, maybe the charred remnants of a building, and as we stood beneath the lurid spot lighting he told me about the art festival he’d visited in Finland.
He’d flown up there to meet the committee—they wanted him to curate a few pieces for the fall festival—but at first he’d been a bit leery of the idea. The budget was microscopic, there was barely any press coverage, and the
festival took place in a small town in eastern Finland. After the meeting he’d wandered through the town’s shuttered mall, past businesses long since closed or maybe never opened, through the arcade behind the grill bar, where men drank beers and boys kicked moped tires, and all the while he’d been thinking that this was a town for rednecks and alcoholics and overweight mothers, a town deserted by six o’clock, not a thinking human being in sight, and the only sound the wind, howling through the streets.
That evening at the railway hotel he got drunk from the minibar. The town gave him the creeps, and he decided to meet the festival director the next day and turn down the job. That was the plan, and that’s what would have happened, if he hadn’t passed a charred wooden sculpture at the harbor the next morning. It was a strange colossus of a statue, standing sootily on the waterfront, at least three meters high, a kind of totem pole or moai or monolith of burned wood, its twisted face casting a grim shadow over the lake.
Christ, who’d made something so ugly? he had thought, and over coffee he asked the festival director the same question. For a moment she adjusted her glasses, then she laughed a nervous laugh, a laugh more like a coughing fit, and explained that a few years ago she’d blown her entire budget on the largest, vilest sculpture she could find. After several months’ search, she tracked down what she was looking for at a handicrafts market in Dakar: a gigantic copy of a ceremonial figure from the Mambilla Plateau in Nigeria, or from the Donga Valley in Cameroon, or maybe just from the workshop behind the bus station in Dakar, she never learned which. That summer they transported the statue north and unveiled it at the waterfront, and afterward the festival employees split into two groups, both of which went undercover in the local community. One group set up a society in honor of the artwork, organizing sing-alongs and flea markets and barbecues on the promenade in front of the wooden effigy, and anytime they got the chance they sang the statue’s praises. They talked about the importance of a landmark and the value of having a meeting point for local youth, about the tourists the monument would attract and the prestige the town on the other side of the water was missing out on. Meanwhile the second group did all they could to spread a feeling of hatred and bitterness and envy. They wrote letters to the editor. They whispered in corners at bars and pubs: Why’s that miserable sculpture on the best square in town, what’s a Negro statue doing up here in the north, why should we waste our hard-earned taxes on an ugly wooden man nobody likes? Before the summer was out, the town had split into two rival factions, and the mayor was obliged to explain himself in the press. In the fall the statue was vandalized with graffiti, a few weeks later a Somali man was attacked on his way home from the train station, and four days before New Year a group of unknown culprits poured gasoline over the statue and set it on fire, nearly burning the Sailing Association’s clubhouse to the ground.
The Invention of Ana Page 19
