The Elephant Vanishes Part 7

And then one day it ended, without warning, without any external cause. I started to lose consciousness at the breakfast table. I stood up without saying anything. I may have knocked something off the table. I think someone spoke to me. But I can't be sure. I staggered to my room, crawled into bed in my clothes, and fell fast asleep. I stayed that way for twenty-seven hours. My mother became alarmed and tried to shake me out of it. She actually slapped my cheeks. But I went on sleeping for twenty-seven hours without a break. And when I finally did awaken, I was my old self again. Probably.

I have no idea why I became an insomniac then or why the condition suddenly cured itself. It was like a thick, black cloud brought from somewhere by the wind, a cloud crammed full of ominous things I have no knowledge of. No one knows where such a thing comes from or where it goes. I can only be sure that it did descend on me for a time, and then departed.

IN ANY CASE, what I have now is nothing like that insomnia, nothing at all. I just can't sleep. Not for one second. Aside from that simple fact, I'm perfectly normal. I don't feel sleepy, and my mind is as clear as ever. Clearer, if anything. Physically, too, I'm normal: My appet.i.te is fine; I'm not fatigued. In terms of everyday reality, there's nothing wrong with me. I just can't sleep.

Neither my husband nor my son has noticed that I'm not sleeping. And I haven't mentioned it to them. I don't want to be told to see a doctor. I know it wouldn't do any good. I just know. Like before. This is something I have to deal with myself.

So they don't suspect a thing. On the surface, our life flows on unchanged. Peaceful. Routine. After I see my husband and son off in the morning, I take my car and go marketing. My husband is a dentist. His office is a ten-minute drive from our condo. He and a dental-school friend own it as partners. That way, they can afford to hire a technician and a receptionist. One partner can take the other's overflow. Both of them are good, so for an office that has been in operation for only five years and that opened without any special connections, the place is doing very well. Almost too well. "I didn't want to work so hard," says my husband. "But I can't complain."

And I always say, "Really, you can't." It's true. We had to get an enormous bank loan to open the place. A dental office requires a huge investment in equipment. And the compet.i.tion is fierce. Patients don't start pouring in the minute you open your doors. Lots of dental clinics have failed for lack of patients.

Back then, we were young and poor and we had a brand-new baby. No one could guarantee that we would survive in such a tough world. But we have survived, one way or another. Five years. No, we really can't complain. We've still got almost two thirds of our debt left to pay back, though.

"I know why you've got so many patients," I always say to him. "It's because you're such a good-looking guy."

This is our little joke. He's not good-looking at all. Actually, he's kind of strange-looking. Even now I sometimes wonder why I married such a strange-looking man. I had other boyfriends who were far more handsome.

What makes his face so strange? I can't really say. It's not a handsome face, but it's not ugly, either. Nor is it the kind that people would say has "character." Honestly, "strange" is about all that fits. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that it has no distinguis.h.i.+ng features. Still, there must be some element that makes makes his face have no distinguis.h.i.+ng features, and if I could grasp whatever that is, I might be able to understand the strangeness of the whole. I once tried to draw his picture, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't remember what he looked like. I sat there holding the pencil over the paper and couldn't make a mark. I was flabbergasted. How can you live with a man so long and not be able to bring his face to mind? I knew how to recognize him, of course. I would even get mental images of him now and then. But when it came to drawing his picture, I realized that I didn't remember anything about his face. What could I do? It was like running into an invisible wall. The one thing I could remember was that his face looked strange. his face have no distinguis.h.i.+ng features, and if I could grasp whatever that is, I might be able to understand the strangeness of the whole. I once tried to draw his picture, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't remember what he looked like. I sat there holding the pencil over the paper and couldn't make a mark. I was flabbergasted. How can you live with a man so long and not be able to bring his face to mind? I knew how to recognize him, of course. I would even get mental images of him now and then. But when it came to drawing his picture, I realized that I didn't remember anything about his face. What could I do? It was like running into an invisible wall. The one thing I could remember was that his face looked strange.

The memory of that often makes me nervous.

Still, he's one of those men everybody likes. That's a big plus in his business, obviously, but I think he would have been a success at just about anything. People feel secure talking to him. I had never met anyone like that before. All my women friends like him. And I'm fond of him, of course. I think I even love him. But strictly speaking, I don't actually like like him. him.

Anyhow, he smiles in this natural, innocent way, just like a child. Not many grown-up men can do that. And I guess you'd expect a dentist to have nice teeth, which he does.

"It's not my fault I'm so good-looking," he always answers when we enjoy our little joke. We're the only ones who understand what it means. It's a recognition of reality-of the fact that we have managed in one way or another to survive-and it's an important ritual for us.

HE DRIVES his Sentra out of the condo parking garage every morning at 8:15. Our son is in the seat next to him. The elementary school is on the way to the office. "Be careful," I say. "Don't worry," he answers. Always the same little dialogue. I can't help myself. I have to say it. "Be careful." And my husband has to answer, "Don't worry." He starts the engine, puts a Haydn or a Mozart tape into the car stereo, and hums along with the music. My two "men" always wave to me on the way out. Their hands move in exactly the same way. It's almost uncanny. They lean their heads at exactly the same angle and turn their palms toward me, moving them slightly from side to side in exactly the same way, as if they'd been trained by a ch.o.r.eographer. his Sentra out of the condo parking garage every morning at 8:15. Our son is in the seat next to him. The elementary school is on the way to the office. "Be careful," I say. "Don't worry," he answers. Always the same little dialogue. I can't help myself. I have to say it. "Be careful." And my husband has to answer, "Don't worry." He starts the engine, puts a Haydn or a Mozart tape into the car stereo, and hums along with the music. My two "men" always wave to me on the way out. Their hands move in exactly the same way. It's almost uncanny. They lean their heads at exactly the same angle and turn their palms toward me, moving them slightly from side to side in exactly the same way, as if they'd been trained by a ch.o.r.eographer.

I have my own car, a used Honda Civic. A girlfriend sold it to me two years ago for next to nothing. One b.u.mper is smashed in, and the body style is old-fas.h.i.+oned, with rust spots showing up. The odometer has over 150,000 kilometers on it. Sometimes-once or twice a month-the car is almost impossible to start. The engine simply won't catch. Still, it's not bad enough to have the thing fixed. If you baby it and let it rest for ten minutes or so, the engine will start up with a nice, solid vroom vroom. Oh, well, everything-everybody-gets out of whack once or twice a month. That's life. My husband calls my car "your donkey." I don't care. It's mine.

I drive my Civic to the supermarket. After marketing, I clean the house and do the laundry. Then I fix lunch. I make a point of performing my morning ch.o.r.es morning ch.o.r.es with brisk, efficient movements. If possible, I like to finish my dinner preparations in the morning, too. Then the afternoon is all mine. with brisk, efficient movements. If possible, I like to finish my dinner preparations in the morning, too. Then the afternoon is all mine.

My husband comes home for lunch. He doesn't like to eat out. He says the restaurants are too crowded, the food is no good, and the smell of tobacco smoke gets into his clothes. He prefers eating at home, even with the extra travel time involved. Still, I don't make anything fancy for lunch. I warm up leftovers in the microwave or boil a pot of noodles. So the actual time involved is minimal. And of course it's more fun to eat with my husband than all alone with no one to talk to.

Before, when the clinic was just getting started, there would often be no patient in the first afternoon slot, so the two of us would go to bed after lunch. Those were the loveliest times with him. Everything was hushed, and the soft afternoon suns.h.i.+ne would filter into the room. We were a lot younger then, and happier.

We're still happy, of course. I really do think so. No domestic troubles cast shadows on our home. I love him and trust him. And I'm sure he feels the same about me. But little by little, as the months and years go by, your life changes. That's just how it is. There's nothing you can do about it. Now all the afternoon slots are taken. When we finish eating, my husband brushes his teeth, hurries out to his car, and goes back to the office. He's got all those sick teeth waiting for him. But that's all right. We both know you can't have everything your own way.

After my husband goes back to the office, I take a bathing suit and towel and drive to the neighborhood athletic club. I swim for half an hour. I swim hard. I'm not that crazy about the swimming itself: I just want to keep the flab off. I've always liked my own figure. Actually, I've never liked my face. It's not bad, but I've never really liked it. My body is another matter. I like to stand naked in front of the mirror. I like to study the soft outlines I see there, the balanced vitality. I'm not sure what it is, but I get the feeling that something inside there is very important to me. Whatever it is, I don't want to lose it.

I'm thirty. When you reach thirty, you realize it's not the end of the world. I'm not especially happy about getting older, but it does make some things easier. It's a question of att.i.tude. One thing I know for sure, though: If a thirty-year-old woman loves her body and is serious about keeping it looking the way it should, she has to put in a certain amount of effort. I learned that from my mother. She used to be a slim, lovely woman, but not anymore. I don't want the same thing to happen to me.

After I've had my swim, I use the rest of my afternoon in various ways. Sometimes I'll wander over to the station plaza and window-shop. Sometimes I'll go home, curl up on the sofa, and read a book or listen to the FM station or just rest. Eventually, my son comes home from school. I help him change into his playclothes, and give him a snack. When he's through eating, he goes out to play with his friends. He's too young to go to an afternoon cram school, and we aren't making him take piano lessons or anything. "Let him play," says my husband. "Let him grow up naturally." When my son leaves the house, I have the same little dialogue with him as I do with my husband. "Be careful," I say, and he answers, "Don't worry."

As evening approaches, I begin preparing dinner. My son is always back by six. He watches cartoons on TV. If no emergency patients show up, my husband is home before seven. He doesn't drink a drop and he's not fond of pointless socializing. He almost always comes straight home from work.

The three of us talk during dinner, mostly about what we've done that day. My son always has the most to say. Everything that happens in his life is fresh and full of mystery. He talks, and we offer our comments. After dinner, he does what he likes-watches television or reads or plays some kind of game with my husband. When he has homework, he shuts himself up in his room and does it. He goes to bed at 8:30. I tuck him in and stroke his hair and say good night to him and turn off the light.

Then it's husband and wife together. He sits on the sofa, reading the newspaper and talking to me now and then about his patients or something in the paper. Then he listens to Haydn or Mozart. I don't mind listening to music, but I can never seem to tell the difference between those two composers. They sound the same to me. When I say that to my husband, he tells me it doesn't matter. "It's all beautiful. That's what counts."

"Just like you," I say.

"Just like me," he answers with a big smile. He seems genuinely pleased.

SO THAT'S MY LIFE-or my life before I stopped sleeping-each day pretty much a repet.i.tion of the one before. I used to keep a diary, but if I forgot for two or three days, I'd lose track of what had happened on which day. Yesterday could have been the day before yesterday, or vice versa. I'd sometimes wonder what kind of life this was. Which is not to say that I found it empty. I was-very simply-amazed. At the lack of demarcation between the days. At the fact that I was part of such a life, a life that had swallowed me up so completely. At the fact that my footprints were being blown away before I even had a chance to turn and look at them.

Whenever I felt like that, I would look at my face in the bathroom mirror-just look at it for fifteen minutes at a time, my mind a total blank. I'd stare at my face purely as a physical object, and gradually it would disconnect from the rest of me, becoming just some thing that happened to exist at the same time as myself. And a realization would come to me: This is happening here and now. It's got nothing to do with footprints. Reality and I exist simultaneously at this present moment. That's the most important thing.

But now I can't sleep anymore. When I stopped sleeping, I stopped keeping a diary.

I REMEMBER REMEMBER with perfect clarity that first night I lost the ability to sleep. I was having a repulsive dream-a dark, slimy dream. I don't remember what it was about, but I do remember how it felt: ominous and terrifying. I woke at the climactic moment-came fully awake with a start, as if something had dragged me back at the last moment from a fatal turning point. Had I remained immersed in the dream for another second, I would have been lost forever. After I awoke, my breath came in painful gasps for a time. My arms and legs felt paralyzed. I lay there immobilized, listening to my own labored breathing, as if I were stretched out full-length on the floor of a huge cavern. with perfect clarity that first night I lost the ability to sleep. I was having a repulsive dream-a dark, slimy dream. I don't remember what it was about, but I do remember how it felt: ominous and terrifying. I woke at the climactic moment-came fully awake with a start, as if something had dragged me back at the last moment from a fatal turning point. Had I remained immersed in the dream for another second, I would have been lost forever. After I awoke, my breath came in painful gasps for a time. My arms and legs felt paralyzed. I lay there immobilized, listening to my own labored breathing, as if I were stretched out full-length on the floor of a huge cavern.

"It was a dream," I told myself, and I waited for my breathing to calm down. Lying stiff on my back, I felt my heart working violently, my lungs hurrying the blood to it with big, slow, bellowslike contractions. I began to wonder what time it could be. I wanted to look at the clock by my pillow, but I couldn't turn my head far enough. Just then, I seemed to catch a glimpse of something at the foot of the bed, something like a vague, black shadow. I caught my breath. My heart, my lungs, everything inside me, seemed to freeze in that instant. I strained to see the black shadow.

The moment I tried to focus on it, the shadow began to a.s.sume a definite shape, as if it had been waiting for me to notice it. Its outline became distinct, and began to be filled with substance, and then with details. It was a gaunt old man wearing a skintight black s.h.i.+rt. His hair was gray and short, his cheeks sunken. He stood at my feet, perfectly still. He said nothing, but his piercing eyes stared at me. They were huge eyes, and I could see the red network of veins in them. The old man's face wore no expression at all. It told me nothing. It was like an opening in the darkness.

This was no longer the dream, I knew. From that I had already awakened. And not just by drifting awake, but by having my eyes ripped open. No, this was no dream. This was reality. And in reality an old man I had never seen before was standing at the foot of my bed. I had to do something-turn on the light, wake my husband, scream. I tried to move. I fought to make my limbs work, but it did no good. I couldn't move a finger. When it became clear to me that I would never be able to move, I was filled with a hopeless terror, a primal fear such as I had never experienced before, like a chill that rises silently from the bottomless well of memory. I tried to scream, but I was incapable of producing a sound or even moving my tongue. All I could do was look at the old man.

Now I saw that he was holding something-a tall, narrow, rounded thing that shone white. As I stared at this object, wondering what it could be, it began to take on a definite shape, just as the shadow had earlier. It was a pitcher, an old-fas.h.i.+oned porcelain pitcher. After some time, the man raised the pitcher and began pouring water from it onto my feet. I could not feel the water. I could see it and hear it splas.h.i.+ng down onto my feet, but I couldn't feel a thing.

The old man went on and on pouring water over my feet. Strange-no matter how much he poured, the pitcher never ran dry. I began to worry that my feet would eventually rot and melt away. Yes, of course they would rot. What else could they do with so much water pouring over them? When it occurred to me that my feet were going to rot and melt away, I couldn't take it any longer.

I closed my eyes and let out a scream so loud it took every ounce of strength I had. But it never left my body. It reverberated soundlessly inside, tearing through me, shutting down my heart. Everything inside my head turned white for a moment as the scream penetrated my every cell. Something inside me died. Something melted away, leaving only a shuddering vacuum. An explosive flash incinerated everything my existence depended on.

When I opened my eyes, the old man was gone. The pitcher was gone. The bedspread was dry, and there was no indication that anything near my feet had been wet. My body, though, was soaked with sweat, a horrifying volume of sweat, more sweat than I ever imagined a human being could produce. And yet, undeniably, it was sweat that had come from me.

I moved one finger. Then another, and another, and the rest. Next, I bent my arms and then my legs. I rotated my feet and bent my knees. Nothing moved quite as it should have, but at least it did move. After carefully checking to see that all my body parts were working, I eased myself into a sitting position. In the dim light filtering in from the streetlamp, I scanned the entire room from corner to corner. The old man was definitely not there.

The clock by my pillow said 12:30. I had been sleeping for only an hour and a half. My husband was sound asleep in his bed. Even his breathing was inaudible. He always sleeps like that, as if all mental activity in him had been obliterated. Almost nothing can wake him.

I got out of bed and went into the bathroom. I threw my sweat-soaked nightgown into the was.h.i.+ng machine and took a shower. After putting on a fresh pair of pajamas, I went to the living room, switched on the floor lamp beside the sofa, and sat there drinking a full gla.s.s of brandy. I almost never drink. Not that I have a physical incompatibility with alcohol, as my husband does. In fact, I used to drink quite a lot, but after marrying him I simply stopped. Sometimes when I had trouble sleeping I would take a sip of brandy, but that night I felt I wanted a whole gla.s.s to quiet my overwrought nerves.

The only alcohol in the house was a bottle of Remy Martin we kept in the sideboard. It had been a gift. I don't even remember who gave it to us, it was so long ago. The bottle wore a thin layer of dust. We had no real brandy gla.s.ses, so I just poured it into a regular tumbler and sipped it slowly.

I must have been in a trance, I thought. I had never experienced such a thing, but I had heard about trances from a college friend who had been through one. Everything was incredibly clear, she had said. You can't believe it's a dream. "I didn't believe it was a dream when it was happening, and now I still don't believe it was a dream." Which is exactly how I felt. Of course it had to be a dream-a kind of dream that doesn't feel like a dream.

Though the terror was leaving me, the trembling of my body would not stop. It was in my skin, like the circular ripples on water after an earthquake. I could see the slight quivering. The scream had done it. That scream that had never found a voice was still locked up in my body, making it tremble.

I closed my eyes and swallowed another mouthful of brandy. The warmth spread from my throat to my stomach. The sensation felt tremendously real real.

With a start, I thought of my son. Again my heart began pounding. I hurried from the sofa to his room. He was sound asleep, one hand across his mouth, the other thrust out to the side, looking just as secure and peaceful in sleep as my husband. I straightened his blanket. Whatever it was that had so violently shattered my sleep, it had attacked only me. Neither of them had felt a thing.

I returned to the living room and wandered about there. I was not the least bit sleepy.

I considered drinking another gla.s.s of brandy. In fact, I wanted to drink even more alcohol than that. I wanted to warm my body more, to calm my nerves down more, and to feel that strong, penetrating bouquet in my mouth again. After some hesitation, I decided against it. I didn't want to start the new day drunk. I put the brandy back in the sideboard, brought the gla.s.s to the kitchen sink and washed it. I found some strawberries in the refrigerator and ate them.

I realized that the trembling in my skin was almost gone.

What was that old man in black? I asked myself. I had never seen him before in my life. That black clothing of his was so strange, like a tight-fitting sweat suit, and yet, at the same time, old-fas.h.i.+oned. I had never seen anything like it. And those eyes-bloodshot, and never blinking. Who was he? Why did he pour water onto my feet? Why did he have to do such a thing?

I had only questions, no answers.

The time my friend went into a trance, she was spending the night at her fiance's house. As she lay in bed asleep, an angry-looking man in his early fifties approached and ordered her out of the house. While that was happening, she couldn't move a muscle. And, like me, she became soaked with sweat. She was certain it must be the ghost of her fiance's father, who was telling her to get out of his house. But when she asked to see a photograph of the father the next day, it turned out to be an entirely different man. "I must have been feeling tense," she concluded. "That's what caused it."

But I'm I'm not tense. And this is my own house. There shouldn't be anything here to threaten me. Why did I have to go into a trance? not tense. And this is my own house. There shouldn't be anything here to threaten me. Why did I have to go into a trance?

I shook my head. Stop thinking, I told myself. It won't do any good. I had a realistic dream, nothing more. I've probably been building up some kind of fatigue. The tennis I played the day before yesterday must have done it. I met a friend at the club after my swim and she invited me to play tennis and I overdid it a little, that's all. Sure-my arms and legs felt tired and heavy for a while afterward.

When I finished my strawberries, I stretched out on the sofa and tried closing my eyes.

I wasn't sleepy at all. Oh, great, I thought. I really don't feel like sleeping.

I thought I'd read a book until I got tired again. I went to the bedroom and picked a novel from the bookcase. My husband didn't even twitch when I turned on the light to hunt for it. I chose Anna Karenina Anna Karenina. I was in the mood for a long Russian novel, and I had read Anna Karenina Anna Karenina only once, long ago, probably in high school. I remembered just a few things about it: the first line, "All happy families resemble one another; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way," and the heroine's throwing herself under a train at the end. And that early on there was a hint of the final suicide. Wasn't there a scene at a racetrack? Or was that in another novel? only once, long ago, probably in high school. I remembered just a few things about it: the first line, "All happy families resemble one another; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way," and the heroine's throwing herself under a train at the end. And that early on there was a hint of the final suicide. Wasn't there a scene at a racetrack? Or was that in another novel?

Whatever. I went back to the sofa and opened the book. How many years had it been since I'd sat down and relaxed like this with a book? True, I often spent half an hour or an hour of my private time in the afternoon with a book open. But you couldn't really call that reading. I'd always find myself thinking about other things-my son, or shopping, or the freezer's needing to be fixed, or my having to find something to wear to a relative's wedding, or the stomach operation my father had last month. That kind of stuff would drift into my mind, and then it would grow and take off in a million different directions. After a while I'd notice that the only thing that had gone by was the time, and I had hardly turned any pages.

Without noticing it, I had become accustomed in this way to a life without books. How strange, now that I think of it. Reading had been the center of my life when I was young. I had read every book in the grade-school library, and almost my entire allowance would go for books. I'd even scrimp on lunches to buy books I wanted to read. And this went on into junior high and high school. n.o.body read as much as I did. I was the third of five children, and both my parents worked, so n.o.body paid much attention to me. I could read alone as much as I liked. I'd always enter the essay contests on books so that I could win a gift certificate for more books. And I usually won. In college, I majored in English literature and got good grades. My graduation thesis on Katherine Mansfield won top honors, and my thesis adviser urged me to apply to graduate school. I wanted to go out into the world, though, and I knew that I was no scholar. I just enjoyed reading books. And even if I had wanted to go on studying, my family didn't have the financial wherewithal to send me to graduate school. We weren't poor by any means, but there were two sisters coming along after me, so once I graduated from college I simply had to begin supporting myself.

When had I really read a book last? And what had it been? I couldn't recall anything. Why did a person's life have to change so completely? Where had the old me gone, the one who used to read a book as if possessed by it? What had those days-and that almost abnormally intense pa.s.sion-meant to me?

THAT NIGHT, I found myself capable of reading Anna Karenina Anna Karenina with unbroken concentration. I went on turning pages without another thought in mind. In one sitting, I read as far as the scene where Anna and Vronsky first see each other in the Moscow train station. At that point, I stuck my bookmark in and poured myself another gla.s.s of brandy. with unbroken concentration. I went on turning pages without another thought in mind. In one sitting, I read as far as the scene where Anna and Vronsky first see each other in the Moscow train station. At that point, I stuck my bookmark in and poured myself another gla.s.s of brandy.

Though it hadn't occurred to me before, I couldn't help thinking what an odd novel this was. You don't see the heroine, Anna, until Chapter 18. I wondered if it didn't seem unusual to readers in Tolstoy's day. What did they do when the book went on and on with a detailed description of the life of a minor character named Oblonsky-just sit there, waiting for the beautiful heroine to appear? Maybe that was it. Maybe people in those days had lots of time to kill-at least the part of society that read novels.

Then I noticed how late it was. Three in the morning! And still I wasn't sleepy.

What should I do? I don't feel sleepy at all, I thought. I could just keep on reading. I'd love to find out what happens in the story. But I have to sleep.

I remembered my ordeal with insomnia and how I had gone through each day back then, wrapped in a cloud. No, never again. I was still a student in those days. It was still possible for me to get away with something like that. But not now, I thought. Now I'm a wife. A mother. I have responsibilities. I have to make my husband's lunches and take care of my son.

But even if I get into bed now, I know I won't be able to sleep a wink.

I shook my head.

Let's face it, I'm just not sleepy, I told myself And I want to read the rest of the book.

I sighed and stole a glance at the big volume lying on the table. And that was that. I plunged into Anna Karenina Anna Karenina and kept reading until the sun came up. Anna and Vronsky stared at each other at the ball and fell into their doomed love. Anna went to pieces when Vronsky's horse fell at the racetrack (so there and kept reading until the sun came up. Anna and Vronsky stared at each other at the ball and fell into their doomed love. Anna went to pieces when Vronsky's horse fell at the racetrack (so there was was a racetrack scene, after all!) and confessed her infidelity to her husband. I was there with Vronsky when he spurred his horse over the obstacles. I heard the crowd cheering him on. And I was there in the stands watching his horse go down. When the window brightened with the morning light, I laid down the book and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. My mind was filled with scenes from the novel and with a tremendous hunger obliterating any other thoughts. I cut two slices of bread, spread them with b.u.t.ter and mustard, and had a cheese sandwich. My hunger pangs were almost unbearable. It was rare for me to feel that hungry. I had trouble breathing, I was so hungry. One sandwich did hardly anything for me, so I made another one and had another cup of coffee with it. a racetrack scene, after all!) and confessed her infidelity to her husband. I was there with Vronsky when he spurred his horse over the obstacles. I heard the crowd cheering him on. And I was there in the stands watching his horse go down. When the window brightened with the morning light, I laid down the book and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. My mind was filled with scenes from the novel and with a tremendous hunger obliterating any other thoughts. I cut two slices of bread, spread them with b.u.t.ter and mustard, and had a cheese sandwich. My hunger pangs were almost unbearable. It was rare for me to feel that hungry. I had trouble breathing, I was so hungry. One sandwich did hardly anything for me, so I made another one and had another cup of coffee with it.

TO MY HUSBAND I said nothing about either my trance or my night without sleep. Not that I was hiding them from him. It just seemed to me that there was no point in telling him. What good would it have done? And besides, I had simply missed a night's sleep. That much happens to everyone now and then. I said nothing about either my trance or my night without sleep. Not that I was hiding them from him. It just seemed to me that there was no point in telling him. What good would it have done? And besides, I had simply missed a night's sleep. That much happens to everyone now and then.

I made my husband his usual cup of coffee and gave my son a gla.s.s of warm milk. My husband ate toast, and my son ate a bowl of cornflakes. My husband skimmed the morning paper, and my son hummed a new song he had learned in school. The two of them got into the Sentra and left. "Be careful," I said to my husband. "Don't worry," he answered. The two of them waved. A typical morning.

After they were gone, I sat on the sofa and thought about how to spend the rest of the day. What should I do? What did I have to do? I went to the kitchen to inspect the contents of the refrigerator. I could get by without shopping. We had bread, milk, and eggs, and there was meat in the freezer. Plenty of vegetables, too. Everything I'd need through tomorrow's lunch.

I had business at the bank, but it was nothing I absolutely had to take care of immediately. Letting it go a day longer wouldn't hurt.

I went back to the sofa and started reading the rest of Anna Karenina Anna Karenina. Until that reading, I hadn't realized how little I remembered of what goes on in the book. I recognized virtually nothing-the characters, the scenes, nothing. I might as well have been reading a whole new book. How strange. I must have been deeply moved at the time I first read it, but now there was nothing left. Without my noticing, the memories of all the shuddering, soaring emotions had slipped away and vanished.

What, then, of the enormous fund of time I had consumed back then reading books? What had all that meant?

I stopped reading and thought about that for a while. None of it made sense to me, though, and soon I even lost track of what I was thinking about. I caught myself staring at the tree that stood outside the window. I shook my head and went back to the book.

Just after the middle of Volume 3, I found a few crumbling flakes of chocolate stuck between the pages. I must have been eating chocolate as I read the novel when I was in high school. I used to like to eat and read. Come to think of it, I hadn't touched chocolate since my marriage. My husband doesn't like me to eat sweets, and we almost never give them to our son. We don't usually keep that kind of thing around the house.

As I looked at the whitened flakes of chocolate from over a decade ago, I felt a tremendous urge to have the real thing. I wanted to eat chocolate while reading Anna Karenina Anna Karenina, the way I did back then. I couldn't bear to be denied it for another moment. Every cell in my body seemed to be panting with this hunger for chocolate.

I slipped a cardigan over my shoulders and took the elevator down. I walked straight to the neighborhood candy shop and bought two of the sweetest-looking milk-chocolate bars they had. As soon as I left the shop, I tore one open and started eating it while walking home. The luscious taste of milk chocolate spread through my mouth. I could feel the sweetness being absorbed directly into every part of my body. I continued eating in the elevator, steeping myself in the wonderful aroma that filled the tiny s.p.a.ce.

Heading straight for the sofa, I started reading Anna Karenina Anna Karenina and eating my chocolate. I wasn't the least bit sleepy. I felt no physical fatigue, either. I could have gone on reading forever. When I finished the first chocolate bar, I opened the second and ate half of that. About two thirds of the way through Volume 3, I looked at my watch. Eleven-forty. and eating my chocolate. I wasn't the least bit sleepy. I felt no physical fatigue, either. I could have gone on reading forever. When I finished the first chocolate bar, I opened the second and ate half of that. About two thirds of the way through Volume 3, I looked at my watch. Eleven-forty.

Eleven-forty!

My husband would be home soon. I closed the book and hurried to the kitchen. I put water in a pot and turned on the gas. Then I minced some scallions and took out a handful of buckwheat noodles for boiling. While the water was heating, I soaked some dried seaweed, cut it up, and topped it with a vinegar dressing. I took a block of tofu from the refrigerator and cut it into cubes. Finally, I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth to get rid of the chocolate smell.

At almost the exact moment the water came to a boil, my husband walked in. He had finished work a little earlier than usual, he said.

Together, we ate the buckwheat noodles. My husband talked about a new piece of dental equipment he was considering bringing into the office, a machine that would remove plaque from patients' teeth far more thoroughly than anything he had used before, and in less time. Like all such equipment, it was quite expensive, but it would pay for itself soon enough. More and more patients were coming in just for a cleaning these days.

"What do you think?" he asked me.

I didn't want to think about plaque on people's teeth, and I especially didn't want to hear or think about it while I was eating. My mind was filled with hazy images of Vronsky falling off his horse. But of course I couldn't tell my husband that. He was deadly serious about the equipment. I asked him the price and pretended to think about it. "Why not buy it if you need it?" I said. "The money will work out one way or another. You wouldn't be spending it for fun, after all."

"That's true," he said. "I wouldn't be spending it for fun." Then he continued eating his noodles in silence.

Perched on a branch of the tree outside the window, a pair of large birds was chirping. I watched them half-consciously. I wasn't sleepy. I wasn't the least bit sleepy. Why not?

While I cleared the table, my husband sat on the sofa reading the paper. Anna Karenina Anna Karenina lay there beside him, but he didn't seem to notice. He had no interest in whether I read books. lay there beside him, but he didn't seem to notice. He had no interest in whether I read books.

After I finished was.h.i.+ng the dishes, my husband said, "I've got a nice surprise today. What do you think it is?"

"I don't know," I said.

"My first afternoon patient has canceled. I don't have to be back in the office until one-thirty." He smiled.

I couldn't figure out why this was supposed to be such a nice surprise. I wonder why I couldn't.

It was only after my husband stood up and drew me toward the bedroom that I realized what he had in mind. I wasn't in the mood for it at all. I didn't understand why I should have s.e.x then. All I wanted was to get back to my book. I wanted to stretch out alone on the sofa and munch on chocolate while I turned the pages of Anna Karenina Anna Karenina. All the time I had been was.h.i.+ng the dishes, my only thoughts had been of Vronsky and of how an author like Tolstoy managed to control his characters so skillfully. He described them with wonderful precision. But that very precision somehow denied them a kind of salvation. And this finally- I closed my eyes and pressed my fingertips to my temple.

"I'm sorry, I've had a kind of headache all day. What awful timing."

I had often had some truly terrible headaches, so he accepted my explanation without a murmur.

"You'd better lie down and get some rest," he said. "You've been working too hard."

"It's really not that bad," I said.

He relaxed on the sofa until one o'clock, listening to music and reading the paper. And he talked about dental equipment again. You bought the latest high-tech stuff and it was obsolete in two or three years.... So then you had to keep replacing everything.... The only ones who made any money were the equipment manufacturers-that kind of talk. I offered a few clucks, but I was hardly listening.