Taipei (30 page)

He held Erin’s hand and wandered somewhat aimlessly into the bathroom and picked up a tongue scraper. “You bought me this,” he said with dull, unfocused eyes. “I never used it. But I really appreciated it. I liked getting it. I never told you.” He put it down and disinterestedly thought “it’s not going to work,” as his hand idly turned a knob, and was surprised by the rupture and crackling of water, its instantaneous column of binary variations. He moved his hand into the water and was surprised again. “I didn’t expect that . . . to feel like that,” he said with a serious expression. “That’s really weird.” Realizing he had no concept of what water felt like until he touched it—cold, grasping, meticulous, aware—he
felt self-conscious and said he wanted to pee alone. Sitting on the toilet, with the door closed, Paul realized he felt less discomfort and could breathe easier and that the surface of things was shinier and more dimensional from greater pixilation, all of which he viewed as evidence he was successfully convincing himself—through an increasingly elaborate, skillful, unconscious projection of a reality he would eventually believe he was exploring—that he wasn’t dead. With an eternity to practice, he realized, he would forget everything he had thought or felt while dead, including his current thoughts and feelings; he would only believe, as he once had, that he was alive.

He was startled, entering his room, to see Erin already moving, as if independent of his perception. He briefly discerned her movement as incremental—not continuous, but in frames per second—and, like with insects or large predators, unpredictable and dangerous. He wanted to move backward and close the door and be alone again, in the bathroom, but Erin had already noticed him and, after a pause, distracted by her attention, he reciprocated her approach. They hugged a little, near the center of the room, then he turned around and moved toward the kitchen—dimly aware of the existence of other places, on Earth, where he could go—and was surprised when he heard himself, looking at his feet stepping into black sandals, say that he felt “grateful to be alive.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to my editor, Tim O’Connell, and my agent, Bill Clegg.