Well, it suddenly occurs to me, maybe so. Maybe the wife is out there. She’s gone somewhere far away. By whatever means of transport, she’s gone somewhere far out of my reach. Maybe our relationship has suffered irreversible damage. Maybe it’s a total loss. Only I haven’t noticed. All sorts of thoughts unravel inside me, then the frayed ends come together again. “Maybe so,” I say out loud. My voice echoes, hollow.

“Tomorrow, when we paint it, you’ll see better,” he resumes. “All it needs is a touch of color to make it an airplane.”

I look at the palms of my hands. They have shrunk slightly. Ever so slightly. Power of suggestion? Maybe the light’s playing tricks on me. Maybe my sense of perspective has been thrown off. Yet, my palms really do look shriveled. Hey now, wait just a minute! Let me speak. There’s something I should say. I must say. I’ll dry up and turn to stone if I don’t. Like the others.

“The phone will ring soon,” the TV People rep says. Then, after a measured pause, he adds, “In another five minutes.”

I look at the telephone; I think about the telephone cord. Endless lengths of phone cable linking one telephone to another. Maybe somewhere, at some terminal of that awesome megacir-cuit, is my wife. Far, far away, out of my reach. I can feel her pulse. Another five minutes, I tell myself. Which way is front, which way is back? I stand up and try to say something, but no sooner have I got to my feet than the words slip away.

—translated by Alfred Birnbaum

A SLOW BOAT TO CHINA

1.

When did I meet my first Chinese?

Just like that, my archaeologist begins sifting through the tell of my own past. Labeling all the artifacts, categorizing, analyzing.

And so, when was that first encounter? As near as I can figure, it was 1959 or 1960. Whichever, whatever, what’s the difference? Precisely nothing. The years ’59 and ’60 stand there like gawky twins in matching nerd suits. Even if I hopped a time machine back to the period, I doubt I could tell the two apart.

In spite of which, I persist with my labors. Doggedly expanding the dig, filling out the picture with every least new find. Shards of memory.

Okay, I’m sure it was the year Johansson and Patterson fought for the world heavyweight title. Which means, all I have to do is go search through the sports section in old copies of The Year in News. That would settle everything.