When the time comes for him to write his next report, Blue is forced to confront this dilemma. White never said anything about making contact with Black. Blue was to watch him, no more, no less, and he wonders now if he has not in fact broken the rules of his assignment. If he includes the conversation in his report, then White might object. On the other hand, if he does not put it in, and if Black is indeed working with White, then White will know immediately that Blue is lying. Blue mulls this over for a long time, but for all that he gets no closer to finding a solution. He’s stuck, one way or the other, and he knows it. In the end, he decides to leave it out, but only because he still puts some meager hope in the fact that he has guessed wrong and that White and Black are not in it together. But this last little stab at optimism soon comes to naught. Three days after sending in the sanitized report, his weekly check comes in the mail, and inside the envelope there is also a note that says, Why do you lie?, and then Blue has proof beyond any shadow of a doubt. And from that moment on, Blue lives with the knowledge that he is drowning.
The next night he follows Black into Manhattan on the subway, dressed in his normal clothes, no longer feeling he has to hide anything. Black gets off at Times Square and wanders around for a while in the bright lights, the noise, the crowds of people surging this way and that. Blue, watching him as though his life depended on it, is never more than three or four steps behind him. At nine o’clock, Black enters the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel, and Blue follows him in. There’s quite a crowd milling about, and tables are scarce, so when Black sits down in a corner nook that just that moment has become free, it seems perfectly natural for Blue to approach and politely ask if he can join him. Black has no objection and gestures with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders for Blue to take the chair opposite. For several minutes they say nothing to each other, waiting for someone to take their orders, in the meantime watching the women walk by in their summer dresses, inhaling the different perfumes that flit behind them in the air, and Blue feels no rush to jump into things, content to bide his time and let the business take its course. When the waiter at last comes to ask their pleasure, Black orders a Black and White on the rocks, and Blue cannot help but take this as a secret message that the fun is about to begin, all the while marveling at Black’s effrontery, his crassness, his vulgar obsession. For the sake of symmetry, Blue orders the same drink. As he does so, he looks Black in the eyes, but Black gives nothing away, looking back at Blue with utter blankness, dead eyes that seem to say there is nothing behind them and that no matter how hard Blue looks, he will never find a thing.
This gambit nevertheless breaks the ice, and they begin by discussing the merits of various brands of scotch. Plausibly enough, one thing leads to another, and as they sit there chatting about the inconveniences of the New York summer season, the decor of the hotel, the Algonquin Indians who lived in the city long ago when it was all woods and fields, Blue slowly evolves into the character he wants to play for the night, settling on a jovial blowhard by the name of Snow, a life insurance salesman from Kenosha, Wisconsin. Play dumb, Blue tells himself, for he knows that it would make no sense to reveal who he is, even though he knows that Black knows. It’s got to be hide and seek, he says, hide and seek to the end.
They finish their first drink and order another round, followed by yet another, and as the talk ambles from actuarial tables to the life expectancies of men in different professions, Black lets fall a remark that turns the conversation in another direction.
I suppose I wouldn’t be very high up on your list, he says.
Oh? says Blue, having no idea what to expect. What kind of work do you do?
I’m a private detective, says Black, point blank, all cool and collected, and for a brief moment Blue is tempted to throw his drink in Black’s face, he’s that peeved, that burned at the man’s gall.
You don’t say! Blue exclaims, quickly recovering and managing to feign a bumpkin’s surprise. A private detective. Imagine that. In the flesh. Just think of what the wife will say when I tell her. Me in New York having drinks with a private eye. She’ll never believe it.
What I’m trying to say, says Black rather abruptly, is that I don’t imagine my life expectancy is very great. At least not according to your statistics.
Probably not, Blue blusters on. But think of the excitement!
There’s more to life than living a long time, you know. Half the men in America would give ten years off their retirement to live the way you do. Cracking cases, living by your wits, seducing women, pumping bad guys full of lead—God, there’s a lot to be said for it.
That’s all make-believe, says Black. Real detective work can be pretty dull.
Well, every job has its routines, Blue continues. But in your case at least you know that all the hard work will eventually lead to something out of the ordinary.
Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But most of the time it’s no. Take the case I’m working on now. I’ve been at it for more than a year already, and nothing could be more boring. I’m so bored that sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.
How so?
Well, figure it out for yourself. My job is to watch someone, no one in particular as far as I can tell, and send in a report about him every week. Just that. Watch this guy and write about it. Not one damned thing more.
What’s so terrible about that?
He doesn’t do anything, that’s what. He just sits in his room all day and writes. It’s enough to drive you crazy.
It could be that he’s leading you along. You know, lulling you to sleep before springing into action.
That’s what I thought at first. But now I’m sure that nothing’s going to happen—not ever. I can feel it in my bones.
That’s too bad, says Blue sympathetically. Maybe you should resign from the case.
I’m thinking about it. I’m also thinking that maybe I should just chuck the whole business and go into something else. Some other line of work. Sell insurance, maybe, or run off to join the circus.
I never realized it could get as bad as that, says Blue, shaking his head. But tell me, why aren’t you watching your man now? Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye on him?
That’s just the point, answers Black. I don’t even have to bother anymore. I’ve been watching him for so long now that I know him better than I know myself. All I have to do is think about him, and I know what he’s doing, I know where he is, I know everything. It’s come to the point that I can watch him with my eyes closed.
Do you know where he is now?
At home. The same as usual. Sitting in his room and writing.
What’s he writing about?
I’m not sure, but I have a pretty good idea. I think he’s writing about himself. The story of his life. That’s the only possible answer. Nothing else would fit.
So why all the mystery?
I don’t know, says Black, and for the first time his voice betrays some emotion, catching ever so slightly on the words.
It all boils down to one question, then, doesn’t it? says Blue, forgetting all about Snow now and looking Black straight in the eyes. Does he know you’re watching him or not?
Black turns away, unable to look at Blue anymore, and says with a suddenly trembling voice: Of course he knows. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? He’s got to know, or else nothing makes sense.
Why?
Because he needs me, says Black, still looking away. He needs my eyes looking at him. He needs me to prove he’s alive.
Blue sees a tear fall down Black’s cheek, but before he can say anything, before he can begin to press home his advantage, Black stands up hastily and excuses himself, saying that he has to make a telephone call. Blue waits in his chair for ten or fifteen minutes, but he knows that he’s wasting his time. Black won’t be back. The conversation is over, and no matter how long he sits there, nothing more will happen tonight.
Blue pays for the drinks and then heads back to Brooklyn. As he turns down Orange Street, he looks up at Black’s window and sees that everything is dark. No matter, says Blue, he’ll return before long. We haven’t come to the end yet. The party is only beginning. Wait until the champagne is opened, and then we’ll see what’s what.
Once inside, Blue paces back and forth, trying to plot his next move. It seems to him that Black has finally made a mistake, but he is not quite certain. For in spite of the evidence, Blue cannot shrug the feeling that it was all done on purpose, and that Black has now begun to call out to him, leading him along, so to speak, urging him on towards whatever end he is planning.
Still, he has broken through to something, and for the first time since the case began he is no longer standing where he was. Ordinarily, Blue would be celebrating this little triumph of his, but it turns out that he is in no mood for patting himself on the back tonight. More than anything else, he feels sad, he feels drained of enthusiasm, he feels disappointed in the world. Somehow, the facts have finally let him down, and he finds it hard not to take it personally, knowing full well that however he might present the case to himself, he is a part of it, too. Then he walks to the window, looks out across the street, and sees that the lights are now on in Black’s room.
He lies down on his bed and thinks: good-bye, Mr. White. You were never really there, were you? There never was such a man as White. And then: poor Black. Poor soul. Poor blighted no one. And then, as his eyes grow heavy and sleep begins to wash over him, he thinks how strange it is that everything has its own color. Everything we see, everything we touch— everything in the world has its own color. Struggling to stay awake a little longer, he begins to make a list. Take blue for example, he says. There are bluebirds and blue jays and blue herons. There are cornflowers and periwinkles. There is noon over New York. There are blueberries, huckleberries, and the Pacific Ocean. There are blue devils and blue ribbons and blue bloods. There is a voice singing the blues. There is my father’s police uniform. There are blue laws and blue movies. There are my eyes and my name. He pauses, suddenly at a loss for more blue things, and then moves on to white. There are seagulls, he says, and terns and storks and cockatoos. There are the walls of this room and the sheets on my bed. There are lilies-of-thevalley, carnations, and the petals of daisies. There is the flag of peace and Chinese death. There is mother’s milk and semen. There are my teeth. There are the whites of my eyes. There are white bass and white pines and white ants. There is the President’s house and white rot. There are white lies and white heat. Then, without hesitating, he moves on to black, beginning with black books, the black market, and the Black Hand. There is night over New York, he says. There are the Chicago Black Sox. There are blackberries and crows, blackouts and black marks, Black Tuesday and the Black Death. There is blackmail. There is my hair. There is the ink that comes out of a pen. There is the world a blind man sees. Then, finally growing tired of the game, he begins to drift, saying to himself that there is no end to it. He falls asleep, dreams of things that happened long ago, and then, in the middle of the night, wakes up suddenly and begins pacing the room again, thinking about what he will do next.
Morning comes, and Blue starts busying himself with another disguise. This time it’s the Fuller brush man, a trick he has used before, and for the next two hours he patiently goes about giving himself a bald head, a moustache, and age lines around his eyes and mouth, sitting in front of his little mirror like an old-time vaudevillian on tour. Shortly after eleven o’clock, he gathers up his case of brushes and walks across the street to Black’s building. Picking the lock on the front door is child’s play for Blue, no more than a matter of seconds, and as he slips into the hallway he can’t help feeling something of the old thrill. No tough stuff, he reminds himself, as he starts climbing the stairs to Black’s floor. This visit is only to get a look inside, to stake out the room for future reference. Still, there’s an excitement to the moment that Blue can’t quite suppress. For it’s more than just seeing the room, he knows—it’s the thought of being there himself, of standing inside those four walls, of breathing the same air as Black. From now on, he thinks, everything that happens will affect everything else. The door will open, and after that Black will be inside of him forever.
He knocks, the door opens, and suddenly there is no more distance, the thing and the thought of the thing are one and the same. Then it’s Black who is there, standing in the doorway with an uncapped fountain pen in his right hand, as though interrupted in his work, and yet with a look in his eyes that tells Blue he’s been expecting him, resigned to the hard truth, but no longer seeming to care.
Blue launches into his patter about the brushes, pointing to the case, offering apologies, asking admittance, all in the same breath, with that rapid saleman’s pitch he’s done a thousand times before. Black calmly lets him in, saying he might be interested in a toothbrush, and as Blue steps across the sill, he goes rattling on about hair brushes and clothes brushes, anything to keep the words flowing, for in that way he can leave the rest of himself free to take in the room, observe the observable, think, all the while diverting Black from his true purpose.
The room is much as he imagined it would be, though perhaps even more austere. Nothing on the walls, for example, which surprises him a little, since he always thought there would be a picture or two, an image of some kind just to break the monotony, a nature scene perhaps, or else a portrait of someone Black might once have loved. Blue was always curious to know what the picture would be, thinking it might be a valuable clue, but now that he sees there is nothing, he understands that this is what he should have expected all along. Other than that, there’s precious little to contradict his former notions. It’s the same monk’s cell he saw in his mind: the small, neatly made bed in one corner, the kitchenette in another corner, everything spotless, not a crumb to be seen. Then, in the center of the room facing the window, the wooden table with a single stiff-backed wooden chair. Pencils, pens, a typewriter. A bureau, a night table, a lamp. A bookcase on the north wall, but no more than several books in it: Walden, Leaves of Grass, Twice-Told Tales, a few others. No telephone, no radio, no magazines. On the table, neatly stacked around the edges, piles of paper: some blank, some written on, some typed, some in longhand. Hundreds of pages, perhaps thousands. But you can’t call this a life, thinks Blue. You can’t really call it anything. It’s a no man’s land, the place you come to at the end of the world.