The Man Without a Shadow. Joyce Carol Oates
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Название: The Man Without a Shadow
Автор: Joyce Carol Oates
Издательство: HarperCollins
isbn: 9780008165406
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Margot tells herself it is all science: a quest for the truth that is elusive, deep-lying.
For truth is not lying on the surface of the earth, scattered bits of fossil you might fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Truth is buried, hidden, labyrinthine. What others see is likely to be surface—superficial. The scientist is one who delves deeper.
E.H. is looking blankly about the examining room, which has become an unknown place to him. It’s as if a stage set has been dismantled and all that remains are barren walls. The bright eager smile has faded from his lips. Elihu Hoopes is a marooned man who has suffered a grievous loss; his manner exudes, not charisma, but desperation. “You were at eighty-nine, Mr. Hoopes,” Margot says gently, to comfort the forlorn man. “You were doing very well when you were interrupted.” She ignores the stares of Kaplan and the others which are an indication to her that she has misspoken.
Hearing Margot’s soft but insistent voice behind him E.H. turns to her in surprise. He has been focusing his attention upon Kaplan and he has totally forgotten Margot—he registers surprise that there are several others in the room, and Margot behind him, sitting in a corner like a schoolgirl, observing and taking notes.
“Hel-lo!—hel-lo!”
It is clear that E.H. has never seen Margot Sharpe before: she is a diminutive young woman with unusually pale skin, black eyebrows and lashes, glossy black bangs hiding much of her forehead; her almond-shaped eyes would be beautiful if not so narrowed in thought.
She is eccentrically dressed in black, layers of black like a dancer. Notebook on her lap, pen in hand, frowning, yet smiling, she is—very likely—a young doctor? medical student? (Not a nurse. He knows that she is not a nurse.) Yet, she isn’t wearing a white lab coat. There is no ID on her lapel which vexes and intrigues E.H.
Ignoring Kaplan and the others E.H. extends his hand to shake the young woman’s hand. “Hel-lo! I think we know each other—we went to school together—did we? In Gladwyne?”
The black-haired young woman hesitates. Then gracefully rises from her seat and comes to him, to slip her hand into his, with a smile.
“Hello, Mr. Hoopes—‘Eli.’ I am Margot Sharpe—whom you have never met before today.”
ACROSS THE GIRL’S white face beneath the rippling water are shadows of dragonflies and “skaters.” It is strange to see, the shadows of the insects are larger than the living insects
He has discovered her, in the stream. No one else knows—he is alone in this place.
But he doesn’t look, he has not (yet) seen the drowned girl. He was not there, so he cannot see. He cannot remember what he has not seen.
On the plank bridge in this strange place so many years later he does not turn his head. He does not glance around. He grips the railing tight in both his hands, bravely he steels himself against the anticipated wind.
Mr. Hoopes? Eli?”
“Hel-lo!”
“My name is Margot Sharpe. I’m Professor Ferris’s associate. We’ve met before. We’ve come to take up a little of your time this morning …”
“Yes! Wel-come.”
Light coming up in his eyes. That leap of hope in his eyes.
“Wel-come, Margot!”
Her hand gripped in his, a clasp of recognition.
He does remember me. Not consciously—but he remembers.
She can’t write about this, yet. She has no scientific proof, yet.
The amnesiac will discover ways of “remembering.” It is a non-declarative memory, it bypasses the conscious mind altogether.
For there is emotional memory, as there is declarative memory.
There is a memory deep-embedded in the body—a memory generated by passion.
Suffused with happiness, Margot Sharpe feels like a balloon rapidly, giddily filling with helium.
“MR. HOOPES? ELI?”
“Hel-lo! Hel-lo.”
He has not ever seen her before. Eagerly he smiles at her, leans close to her, to shake her hand.
In his large, strong hand, Margot Sharpe’s small hand.
“You may not recall, we’ve met before—‘Margot Sharpe.’ I’m one of Professor Ferris’s research associates. We’ve been working together for—well, some time.”
“‘Mar-got Sharpe.’ Yes. We’ve been working together for—some time.” E.H. smiles gallantly as if he knows very well how long they’ve been working together, but it is a secret between them.
Today E.H. has the larger of his sketchbooks with him. He has finished the New York Times crossword puzzle—the newspaper page is discarded as usual, on the floor.
E.H. has been sketching with a stick of charcoal, seated beside a window in the anterior of the fourth-floor testing-room. He appears to be oblivious of the plate glass window that is dramatically lashed with rain, as he is oblivious of his clinical surroundings; the objects of E.H.’s art, which excite his fierce attention, are almost exclusively interior, and he does not care to share them with others.
(Except sometimes, Margot Sharpe.)
(Though Margot knows not to ask E.H. to see his drawings but to wait for E.H. to offer to show her. The offer, if it comes, will come spontaneously.)
“Do you have any idea how long we’ve been working together, Eli?”—Margot always asks.
E.H.’s smile wavers. He speaks thoughtfully, gravely.
“Well—I think—maybe—six weeks.”
“Six weeks?”
“Maybe more, or maybe less. You know, I have some problem with what is called ‘memory.’”
“How long have you had this problem, Eli?”
“How long have I had this problem? Well—I think—maybe—six weeks.” E.H. smiles at Margot, with a pleading expression. He is still gripping Margot’s hand; gently, she has to detach it.
“Do you know what has caused this problem, Eli?”
“Well, it’s ‘neurological.’ I suppose they’ve done X-rays. I think I remember my head СКАЧАТЬ