Como tinha sido tomar nos braços: Auster

 E. McKnight Kauffer, Contact With the World, Use the Telephone, 1934

'The Telephone Ringing Three Times in the Dead of Night'

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It was a wrong number that started it, the telephone ringing three times in the dead of night, and the voice on the other end asking for someone he was not. Much later, when he was able to think about the things that happened to him, he would conclude that nothing was real except chance. But that was much later. In the beginning, there was simply the event and its consequences. Whether it might have turned out differently, or whether it was all predetermined with the first word that came from the stranger's mouth, is not the question. The question is the story itself, and whether or not it means something is not for the story to tell.

As for Quinn, there is little that need detain us. Who he was, where he came from, and what he did are of no great importance. We know, for example, that he was thirty-five years old. We know that he had once been married, had once been a father, and that both his wife and son were now dead. We also know that he wrote books. To be precise, we know that he wrote mystery novels. These works were written under the name of William Wilson, and he produced them at the rate of about one a year, which brought in enough money for him to live modestly in a small New York apartment. Because he spent no more than five or six months on a novel, for the rest of the year he was free to do as he wished. He read many books, he looked at paintings, he went to the movies. In the summer he watched baseball on television; in the winter he went to the opera. More than anything else, however, what he liked to do was walk. Nearly every day, rain or shine, hot or cold, he would leave his apartment to walk through the city—never really going anywhere, but simply going wherever his legs happened to take him.

New York was an inexhaustible space, a labyrinth of endless steps, and no matter how far he walked, no matter how well he came to know its neighborhoods and streets, it always left him with the feeling of being lost. Lost, not only in the city, but within himself as well. Each time he took a walk, he felt as though he were leaving himself behind, and by giving himself up to the movement of the streets, by reducing himself to a seeing eye, he was able to escape the obligation to think, and this, more than anything else, brought him a measure of peace, a salutary emptiness within. The world was outside of him, around him, before him, and the speed with which it kept changing made it impossible for him to dwell on any one thing for very long. Motion was of the essence, the act of putting one foot in front of the other and allowing himself to follow the drift of his own body. By wandering aimlessly, all places became equal, and it no longer mattered where he was. On his best walks, he was able to feel that he was nowhere. And this, finally, was all he ever asked of things: to be nowhere. New York was the nowhere he had built around himself, and he realized that he had no intention of ever leaving it again.

In the past, Quinn had been more ambitious. As a young man he had published several books of poetry, had written plays, critical essays, and had worked on a number of long translations. But quite abruptly, he had given up all that. A part of him had died, he told his friends, and he did not want it coming back to haunt him. It was then that he had taken on the name of William Wilson. Quinn was no longer that part of him that could write books, and although in many ways Quinn continued to exist, he no longer existed for anyone but himself.

He had continued to write because it was the only thing he felt he could do. Mystery novels seemed a reasonable solution. He had little trouble inventing the intricate stories they required, and he wrote well, often in spite of himself, as if without having to make an effort. Because he did not consider himself to be the author of what he wrote, he did not feel responsible for it and therefore was not compelled to defend it in his heart. William Wilson, after all, was an invention, and even though he had been born within Quinn himself, he now led an independent life. Quinn treated him with deference, at times even admiration, but he never went so far as to believe that he and William Wilson were the same man. It was for this reason that he did not emerge from behind the mask of his pseudonym. He had an agent, but they had never met. Their contacts were confined to the mail, for which purpose Quinn had rented a numbered box at the post office. The same was true of the publisher, who paid all fees, monies, and royalties to Quinn through the agent. No book by William Wilson ever included an author's photograph or biographical note. William Wilson was not listed in any writers' directory, he did not give interviews, and all the letters he received were answered by his agent's secretary. As far as Quinn could tell, no one knew his secret. In the beginning, when his friends learned that he had given up writing, they would ask him how he was planning to live. He told them all the same thing: that he had inherited a trust fund from his wife. But the fact was that his wife had never had any money. And the fact was that he no longer had any friends.

It had been more than five years now. He did not think about his son very much anymore, and only recently he had removed the photograph of his wife from the wall. Every once in a while, he would suddenly feel what it had been like to hold the three-year-old boy in his arms—but that was not exactly thinking, nor was it even remembering. It was a physical sensation, an imprint of the past that had been left in his body, and he had no control over it. These moments came less often now, and for the most part it seemed as though things had begun to change for him. He no longer wished to be dead. At the same time, it cannot be said that he was glad to be alive. But at least he did not resent it. He was alive, and the stubbornness of this fact had little by little begun to fascinate him—as if he had managed to outlive himself, as if he were somehow living a posthumous life. He did not sleep with the lamp on anymore, and for many months now he had not remembered any of his dreams.

Paul Auster [The New York Trylogy (A Trilogia de Nova York), © Paul Auster, 1987]

'O telefone tocando três vezes na calada da noite'

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Foi um número errado que começou a coisa, o telefone tocando três vezes na calada da noite, e a voz do outro lado da linha chamando por alguém que não era ele. Muito depois, quando foi capaz de pensar a respeito das coisas que lhe ocorreram, concluiria que nada fora real exceto o acaso. Mas isto foi muito depois. No princípio, era apenas o evento e suas consequências. Se as coisas poderiam haver tomado um outro rumo, ou se tudo fora predeterminado pela primeira palavra a sair da boca do estranho, não é a questão. A questão é a história em si. E se o evento significa ou não algo não é da história a ser contada.

Quanto a Quinn, há pouco em que nos deter. Quem ele era, de onde veio, e o que fez não agregam muita importância. Sabemos, por exemplo, que tinha trinta e cinco anos. Sabemos que um dia fora casado, que um dia fora pai, e que tanto sua esposa quanto seu filho já estavam mortos. Também sabemos que escrevia livros. Para ser preciso, sabemos que escrevia romances de mistério. Essas obras eram escritas sob a rubrica de William Wilson, e ele os produzia a um média de um por ano, o que fornecia o dinheiro suficiente para viver modestamente num pequeno apartamento em Nova York. Porque ele não gastava mais do que cinco ou seis meses em um romance, estava livre o resto do ano para fazer o que bem entendesse. Lia muitos livros, apreciava pinturas, ia aos filmes. No verão, assistia ao beisebol na televisão; no inverno seguia à ópera. Mais do que qualquer coisa, no entanto, o que ele gostava de fazer era caminhar. Quase todo dia, sob chuva ou sol, calor ou frio, deixava seu apartamento para caminhar pela cidade—nunca de fato indo a lugar algum, mas simplesmente seguindo para onde suas pernas entendiam conduzi-lo.

Nova York era um espaço inesgotável, um labirinto de passos sem fim, e não importa quão distante fosse, não importa o quanto viesse a conhecer as vizinhanças e suas ruas, experimentava sempre o sentimento de estar perdido. Perdido, não só na cidade, mas dentro de si por igual. A cada vez que saía a caminhar, sentia como se estivesse deixando-se para trás, e ao entregar-se ao burburinho das ruas, reduzir-se a um simples olho alerta, apto a escapar da obrigação de pensar, e isto, mais do que qualquer coisa, trazia-lhe uma medida de paz, um salutar vazio consigo. O mundo estava fora dele, a seu redor, adiante, atrás, o ritmo que seguia cambiando possibilitava-lhe obsedar-se menos com o que quer que fosse por um longo lapso. Mover-se estava na essência, o ato de pôr um pé depois do outro e permitir-lhe seguir o fluxo de seu próprio corpo. Por caminhar sem destino aparente, todos os locais tornavam-se iguais, e não importava aonde ele estivesse. Nas suas melhores caminhadas, ele podia pressentir que estava alhures. E isto, enfim, era o que ele demandava das coisas: estar alhures. Nova York era o alhures que ele construíra à volta de si, e ele concluíra que não tinha qualquer intenção de deixá-la novamente.

No passado, Quinn havia sido mais ambicioso. Quando mais jovem publicara vários livros de poesia, havia escrito peças, ensaios críticos, e trabalhado num vasto número de traduções. Mas quase abruptamente, deixara tudo isso de lado. Uma parte dele havia morrido, disse aos amigos, e ele não queria ser assombrado por essa morte. Foi por essa época que assumiu o nome de William Wilson. Quinn não era mais a parte dele que podia escrever livros, e embora em muitos aspectos Quinn continuasse a existir, não existia senão para si próprio.

Ele continuara a escrever porque era a única coisa que pensava que podia fazer. Romances de mistério pareciam uma solução factível. Ele não tinha maiores problemas em inventar as intrincadas tramas que eles requeriam, e ele escrevia bem, com frequência a despeito de si, como se não dispendesse naquilo qualquer esforço. Porque não se considerava o autor do que escrevia, não se sentia responsável e portanto pouco compelido a defender aquilo em seu coração. William Wilson, no fim de tudo, era uma invenção, e mesmo que houvesse nascido do próprio Quinn, levava agora uma vida própria. Quinn tratava-o com deferência, por vezes até admiração, mas ele nunca chegava ao ponto de acreditar que ele e William Wilson eram o mesmo homem. Era por isso que ele nunca emergia além da máscara de seu pseudônimo. Ele possuía um agente, que nunca encontrara. Seus contatos limitavam-se a cartas, para cujo propósito Quinn alugara uma caixa postal numerada numa agência dos correios. O mesmo estendia-se ao editor, que pagava todos os honorários, verbas e royalties a Quinn através do agente. Nenhum livro de William Wilson incluía uma foto ou uma nota biográfica do autor. William Wilson não se encontrava incluído em nenhum catálogo de autores, não concedia entrevistas, e todas as cartas que recebia eram respondidas pela secretária de seu agente. Até onde Quinn podia contar, ninguém sabia de seu segredo. No princípio, quando seus amigos souberam que deixara de escrever, indagaram-lhe como planejava viver. Ele sempre lhes respondia a mesma coisa: que herdara um fundo de previdência de sua esposa. Mas em verdade sua mulher nunca tivera dinheiro. E em verdade ele não tinha mais amigos.

Agora se haviam ido mais de cinco anos. Ele já não pensava muito em seu filho, e só recentemente havia retirado o retrato de sua mulher da parede. De vez em quando, ele sentia súbito como tinha sido tomar nos braços uma criança de três anos—mas isto não era exatamente um pensamento, nem sequer uma lembrança. Era uma sensação física, um carimbo do passado que havia permanecido em seu corpo, e sobre o qual ele não tinha controle. Esses momentos sobrevinham com menos frequência agora, e em geral as coisas como que pareciam mudar para ele. Não mais desejava estar morto. Ao mesmo tempo, não se pode dizer que estivesse satisfeito de estar vivo. Mas ao menos ele não se ressentia. Estava vivo, e a insistência desse fato havia pouco a pouco começado a fasciná-lo—como se ele houvesse sobrevivido a si próprio, como se ele houvesse obtido de algum modo uma vida póstuma. Não mais dormia com a luz acesa, e por meses a fio era incapaz de lembrar-se de seus sonhos.

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