I wanted you to have this photograph of yourself. There was an error of sorts initially — the wrong photo was dropped in your hallway, or rather the right photograph was dropped in your hallway, but it wasn’t for you. You’ve concluded your investigation within the required time frame — congratulations. I’m sorry that in the end we had to resort to the mirror, but you will understand, no doubt, given the time constraint, that it was necessary. The blindfold is a gift, a touch of flash, of color — I remember how much pride you took in your appearance in the old days. But also, of course, by way of further explanation of the blindfold, you will remember those encounters in your, I mean one’s, childhood with both mirrors and blindfolds, and the ensuing, once their purpose was grasped, sense of departure and wonder. We are all of us, as children, investigators, sailing around in our imaginations like cups and saucers gone far out to sea. Never mind that cups and saucers out to sea would likely sink. The image is still rather pretty. At any rate, I expect my own letter soon and have decided I will request a similar investigation, and have no doubt many others will also follow this trail you have blazed, and that it might even become institutionalized. You were always highly capable, and what our mutual friend told you about those long ago events wasn’t true — you loved and were loved in return, perhaps even more fiercely. Adieu.
Or at any rate, something like the preceding minus a few emendations appeared on the back of the photograph. But probably you won’t find surprising my interest in maintaining that all of it, emendations included, was true. Could it, after all, have been possible, much less reasonable, that in the midst of our short time together, all those years ago, my love had said, in the presence of several others, myself included, that piece of shit means nothing to me? I don’t think so.
Such are my thoughts on the case and, more generally, on the time I’ve spent since coming here. Now that the case has been, so to speak, closed, without, as it turns out, much real help from dreams or speculation or hunches, I find that I am by no means encouraged by its result. Being aware of the identity of my putative killer in no way renders more tolerable to me the imminent prospect of being killed. Though I’d like to make clear that I never seriously thought it would. I mainly wanted, as we used to say, to buy myself a little time, or at least to keep myself busy. I also wanted, once he / she was found, if not to actually injure my killer — although that would have been nice — to scare him / her a little, and now find myself, however perversely, pleased to register that this desire will be gratified. Is being gratified. It certainly is an exceedingly sharp knife. And it glistens on the table in front of me. As does the blindfold with the multicolored sequins I will soon tie on.
D
“We will be silent” “& wait,” “the voice said.” “Then we were truly quiet” “& being that,” “were nothing,” “really nothing.”
SO THAT, THESE SEVERAL MONTHS OR years or circumstances ago, after a certain interval, I found myself moved to rise, to go into the front room and join my friend, to sit, as it were, in company with him. This laudable ambition notwithstanding, I got no further than the handle of the door — my friend was no longer alone. He was talking to an individual with an orange hat and a cracked tooth.
Yes, he’s in there, and he’s feeling very lonely, my friend said.
So maybe I’ll go in there and give him some company, the individual with the orange hat and the cracked tooth said. And when he stood — the door was slightly ajar — I could see he was holding a gun.
It occurred to me, of course, that I was simply, as so often, drifting again. After all, I had witnessed this scene, or one much like it, several days or weeks previously. Something, though, told me it might be important to attempt to play it safe. So I did what it had lately struck me I could do — I became barely visible.