Yes. It did. I was very disturbed about something, you might know what it is…do you? Did they tell you?

  No.

  I was disturbed, I was not really in my own mind, in my own soul. I made some mistakes beginning about a year and a half ago.…They have to do with people. Certain people. One man in particular…but.…But all that’s over now. I went away by myself, to be alone and away from certain influences…and…and those influences followed me, they seemed to be in waiting for me in my sleep. They got the better of me for a while. I was terrified of sleep, of falling asleep…because.…

  Yes, Jules wanted to say, yes. Yes.

  …because a certain person would come to me then.…I don’t believe in him any longer, I don’t believe in the power people claim over others, I really don’t believe it, she said. She stood facing Jules, her arms folded. He could imagine her strong, fierce, defiant—a precocious-child daring to her, an air just in the way she smiled at him of her knowing secrets he would never know. Spoiled little bitch. And it hit him then that she was not helpless but superior to him: that she had assumed almost immediately her own superiority, but not consciously, not deliberately. She must have been born to this, Jules thought, annoyed; ordering people around.

  No, she said, seriously, no, I don’t believe in it—the power people claim over others. It isn’t real. It’s just….

  Jules looked skeptical. What power? What people? He wondered if she was talking this way, so emphatically, to confuse him all the more. She warmed to that look of his, however, nodding as if he were helping her in this—even relaxing, letting her arms fall at her sides, letting go— saying, Yes, you agree with me? You do, don’t you? That there isn’t this…this influence of one mind over another…?

  I don’t know, Jules said. He glanced around the room— taking in only the plainness of it, the anonymous pale-yellow walls, the total lack of mystery in this place he had so violently imagined—and away from her intense, staring face. She wanted him to agree with her but he didn’t know what she was talking about, and he sensed her knowing this —his own befuddlement—but not caring, so desperate was she to be convinced. He said that he would drive her where she wanted to go: he would be happy to. He would help her. But he wanted to know a little more of.…

  You already know, Dewalene said.

  I don’t, Jules said.

  You already know as much as anyone does, she said, and anyway it’s better not to know too much about him. That was where I went wrong, getting too close…I drifted into it, I didn’t know what would happen.…I’m not that young, she said, laughing, I mean I’m no longer seventeen years old, the way some of them are: when I was seventeen I still lived at home. But now they get younger and younger.…I’m twenty-three. I’m really not very young, not by California standards…for this sort of thing…I mean…you know what I mean, don’t you?

  Generally, Jules said. I suppose so.

  And I did it against my own nature, she said, to punish myself. I did it deliberately. I mean at first, deliberately, choosing a way to descend that was disgusting to me, because I wanted to shake up my life, my personality…I wanted to get outside of myself, outside of my selfish life, I’d been hypnotized into it.…But beyond a certain point I lost control. I couldn’t choose any longer. I was living for a while with…with some people…and I lost track of time, and things happened during those times, that come back to me now. They come back in flashes. But what I want to explain to you is…is that the nightmares are over, I think, and the hallucinations in the air…and…and I don’t think I’ll ever try that again, what I tried a few days ago. Dosing my system like that. I won’t ever do that again. Because it was like a miracle, I came back to life…I had to get to the window and put my head out, and breathe the air…I had no control over it, something just came into me and through me, like electricity, calling my name and crying: Get up! Get up!…And so I dragged myself over there, over to the window.…

  That window, that one…? Jules asked.

  …yes, that one. I dragged myself over there. And it seemed to me that the nightmares were ended, that I had come through. I don’t know why. I don’t deserve it.

  She seized her long thick hair in both hands and smoothed it back from her face, back and down, eagerly, swiftly, girlishly, saying to Jules that the very air had changed, the taste of the air had changed, something had passed by her and left her untouched and now she didn’t want to die, after all, because the memories would fade, she was sure they would fade, and she would forget. And she would begin over again somewhere else.

  Back home? Jules asked.

  Home where? she asked.

  She was moving around the bed, pulling the bedclothes up. She made the bed quickly, hurriedly, kept getting the cover too long on one side and then on the other, self-conscious as Jules watched her, yet finicky and arrogant too. She glanced at him over her shoulder, saying, Home where?…You don’t know anything about my home. Whether I have a home or not.

  Her legs showed muscle at the calf, strong legs, though quite pale—a pallor worse than her face—almost dead-white, as if she had been hidden away from the sunshine for some time. Tiny blue veins at the back of the knees, and the toes rather long, narrow, the big toe especially long, the toenails grown out too long, so that it passed through Jules’ mind whimsically—he even smiled—that he must be careful of those toenails or they’d scrape his legs raw. And glancing up at her he couldn’t keep that look off his face: sheer calculating desire. But Dewalene was too nervously absorbed in making the bed to notice this; she was still talking to him, at him, as if giving directions—

  The drive will take only two days and they’ll pay you, where we’re going. Please trust me. I assume they gave you an advance—

  Jules shrugged his shoulders.

  —and at the other end you’ll get the rest. I don’t even know, she said cheerfully, what they’re giving you…I don’t know about such things, such arrangements.

  Don’t you?

  It’s only such a relief to me to get out of here, out of this, she said. A while ago I wanted to die, I did want to die…but then it passed through me, as if part of me did die, and what stayed living is very…well, very happy now.…I’m so grateful to you, I’m grateful you’re the one to help me. Because you seem like a nice person.…

  She laughed, embarrassed. Her face colored.

  Now don’t patronize me, Jules said meanly.

  O I’m not! I’m not!

  He was flattered by her confusion.

  I didn’t mean to patronize you, she said slowly. Not me, not of all people me.…I have no right to patronize anyone.

  That private, anguished pallor of hers! Almost, Jules wanted to look away; it was disturbing to him, obscene. Though he knew nothing about her he seemed suddenly to know everything. He seemed to be looking into her, into her wide self-hating vacant stare, and he felt a kinship with her self-hate: a knowledge of her, as if he had penetrated her body with his own. He knew his mind was making wrong turns, wrong decisions. It was making him stand here, taking orders from a stranger, a girl who was hectic and highly-charged and too intense for him, even if she weren’t soiled by near death and by his own fantasies of the two of them threshing on the floor here together.…It was making him hectic himself, with a lovely false rosiness, a springing-up of excitement he knew was somehow morbid. She apologized again, in that slow and rather formal voice, making an issue of it…patronizing him even now, with her apology. You see how polite I am, even to someone like you.

  No, he wouldn’t love her. He wouldn’t even make love to her. No, Jules thought, not this time.

  …never meant to insult you, my God, I owe my very life to you, she was saying, I have no one but you to get me out of here.

  * * *

  He waited half an hour for Ganzfeld, his mind beating angrily. Where was that bastard, what was wrong, what was this, who did Ganzfeld think he was…? Jules was dizzy with the impact of Dewalene, stronger now than when he had actually been with her: out on the street here, waiting at an intersection, he saw the ordinary faces of people about him, men and women, sexless neutral uncharged faces, saw how flat they were and how disappointing.… None of them Dewalene, none of them arrogant and helpless! He felt almost a kind of nausea, a helplessness of his own, to realize that something had opened up in him, a secret craving, and that no one could satisfy it but Dewalene; that, somehow, without quite knowing it, he had delivered himself over to her. By the time Ganzfeld showed up Jules had become quite impatient.

  .…you? Ganzfeld asked, surprised.

  Jules turned. There he was, looking worse than ever: unshaven, anxious, rumpled. His hair was combed oddly, in a way Jules did not recall, long thin wet-looking strands combed over the crown of his head. Was this Ganzfeld?

  You look angry about something, Ganzfeld said.

  The voice was the voice on the telephone: so it must have been Ganzfeld.

  Jules ignored this and handed the key over to Ganzfeld, as if this were a very important transaction, done in silence, Jules frowning and the two of them drawn close together— with a mechanical, perfunctory intimacy that might have meant they were old friends, accustomed to dealing with each other on a busy street corner at 10 PM. Ganzfeld slapped his pockets, whistled relief—almost forgot the money, ha ha—and handed Jules an envelope and Jules pocketed it without checking it, being an associate of Ganzfeld’s and not suspicious of anything. Jules asked if he wanted the photograph back…?

  Of the girl? Ganzfeld laughed. Christ no.

  Jules raised his eyebrows.

  Oh yeh, a funny thing, Ganzfeld said, drawing near to Jules again as if to tell him a joke, and hearty with him now that their relationship was finished, you know my wife…you know how superstitious she is…well, it turns out she had a dream about that girl! All along!

  What do you mean, all along? Jules asked.

  Ganzfeld mumbled something about his wife’s dreams— premonitions—and seemed to be imitating her, or at any rate altering his voice a little and twisting his expression around—not that he was superstitious!—though Jules didn’t think that was a very good imitation of the man’s wife, and stood unsmiling, waiting for it to come to an end. Vaguely, remotely, he knew that something was wrong. He waited for Ganzfeld to complete the dream.

  …always worries about me, you know how women are. I try to explain to her, well, it was worse when I was on the force: the niggers are apt’a run right in with shotguns these days, to liberate their brothers from the jail-block.…Ganzfeld shook his head. He went on to tell Jules that he had enjoyed their association and would certainly call on Jules again: the Star Hotel, right? and explained in a rush how perfect Jules had been for the job, how certain he, Ganzfeld, had been as soon as they met, after a morning and an early afternoon of spies from other agencies, sons of bitches sent out to sabotage Ganzfeld’s career.…It’s a difficult life, Ganzfeld sighed, but a challenging one. Ah well.…

  Jules thought he might leave now: he smiled and backed away. He could not resist She is a very beautiful girl, that Dewalene.…

  Ganzfeld gaped at him.

  Is…?

  Not to exaggerate, not to exaggerate, not humanity or himself or god-gluttonous events that link them, but his body was exaggerated and stiff with misery. He could not believe that she was doing this: turned away from him swiftly, indifferently like a sister pulling something over her head, something to sleep in, and then shyly slipping the dress down past her hips, stepping out of it barefoot.…

  O I’m so tired suddenly, suddenly exhausted, she whispered, and it was true how wasted she looked. Even her ferocious hair looked spent in wide wavy strands. Jules stooped to pick a hair up: long, glinting black. A single hair. Watching her, covertly, his lust making him angry, he wound the hair around his left thumb and listened to her rapid murmur which was like a farewell, backing away and eyes averted out of alarm at seeing a stranger in this room with her:…have a gun? If you do, please don’t show it to me. I don’t want to know about it. I would rather not know…who you are or what your reasons are for being involved in this.…

  Jules said nothing. He went to the window facing the street, thinking suddenly that maybe someone could see in…Dewalene had not bothered to draw the blind down to the window sill…only the curtains were closed, yanked together, dust-weary white curtains with ruffles. Jules stared out to the building across the way. There, that room. He looked across to the window of that room, S. Alkon’s room, and it seemed to him innocent enough…opaque with darkness. Was someone inside? Jules scanned the front of the building, the rows of windows, far to the left and then down again and back around and up again, past the window he had gazed out for so many long hours, and all this told him nothing. Most of the windows were illuminated, shades were drawn carefully, a few of the windows showed only darkness inside: Was someone watching?

  Jules turned around and she was staring at him. Is something wrong? she said. What are you looking at…?

  He pulled the blind down.

  …this is a quiet neighborhood, Dewalene said quickly, because of the factories over there, I mean, they don’t seem to be operating at full capacity, at least not at night…so it’s quiet around here, in the street, isn’t it? I don’t think there is anyone out there.…

  Jules said there was no one out there: No.

  …the only people who know where I am are people who want to help me, Dewalene said. She was wearing a thing that came to her knees, unevenly, a pull-over tunic or shift of a very thin jersey material; she folded her arms, as if she were cold, but really to hide her breasts from him—though she did this unconsciously, smiling at him and telling him, insisting that there was no danger any longer and never had been, No, the only danger was in my imagination, she laughed, because I exaggerated so much.…

  Jules said ironically: Yes. Sure.

  She went to the bed and pulled the covers back and got in, facing the wall. He thought she looked like a mechanical doll, getting into a bed without looking at the bed. They lay there, motionless. Razor-sharp his gaze went, very cruel, his lips lifting from his teeth to say something cruel.…No danger, no, of course not, no danger, none at all! But he forced his voice to be gentle, to sound gentle. He said, All right, go to sleep if you can, nothing will happen and we’ll leave around six.…All right?

  She made a sound that meant yes, all breath, a child’s sweet brainless sigh.

  …then lifting her head she whispered, About the gun…?

  Jules had turned off the overhead light. The room was fairly dark.

  …if you have one, if you have one, Dewalene said quickly, please don’t use it? Don’t use it?

  Why would I have to use it, since there’s no danger involved in this?

  It’s true there is no danger, I mean the only danger is… was…in my imagination, in my nightmares, Dewalene said, because people can’t have influence over others… they can’t control them across distances…no, there’s no danger and no need for a gun, maybe you should leave it behind. Jules? Maybe you should leave it behind.

  All right, I’ll leave it behind.

  …you’re so strange, so nice, you do whatever I ask, Dewalene said. But don’t watch me now, please. I’m so tired.…My head feels so heavy, she said laughing, letting it fall onto the pillow, it feels the way it might feel on the planet Jupiter.…Yes, she said, softly, as if drifting into sleep or pretending, yes, you’re strange, you’re not like me. You’re the opposite of me, Jules.

  Am I?

  Yes. Because I came into this, I came down into this, of my own free will.…But I don’t think you did. I think you’re just here, with me tonight, watching over me tonight…you’re just here in this part of the world by accident…and anywhere you would be, it would be by accident.…

  Don’t patronize me, Jules wanted to say lightly. But it stung him: the truth of what she said.

  …accidental, innocent, a second-and-a-half of absolute pure light shone into the brain, then the rushing-in of the world again, never pulverized down to nothing. Don’t patronize me, please, Jules says, though he knows himself a criminal and a murderer—and when he mumbled a delirious confession to murder, once, coming out of the anesthesia after an emergency operation in 1972, in some post-operative room cold and silent as an incubator for creatures without blood, crying out that confession he half-knew half-dreaded he would cry out, if consciousness ever deserted him in any institution in which the staff wore uniforms—what did it matter? what did the delirium matter? any more than the murder itself, the struggle with a policeman in broken glass and flowers and air stinking from a broken refrigeration unit? I killed a man, Jules had wept, I shot him in the face— Do something with me, help me, put me away, obliterate me—rising rocking from side to side groggy and sick, deathly sick, sick with the profound dead-end-blank sickness of the moon seen upside-down and inside-out from that street near the beach where he lay, having been dragged out of his taxi and beaten savagely in the face, his nose broken, his eyes hammered shut except for slits through which to view the moon, and something terrible stuffed down his throat—oh Christ what had they done to him, those black boys?—Jules who meant no harm, who meant only to make a living and see what this edge of the continent would reveal to him— something metallic and columnar like a flashlight shoved down his throat and meant to kill him—Out of delicacy or because no one knew or remembered, the exact nature of that object was never revealed to Jules. He had gasped his way up through the suffocation and the whining of sirens and the sudden jump of time to waking, recovering, weeping that confession, into the not-very-wakeful face of a man who looked too young to be a doctor but must have been a doctor, saying O Christ I killed a man once, back home, it was a cop, a stranger, and the face above him wobbled and teased him because it wouldn’t give him any sign: Yes? No? And finally he woke and the intern was saying,…you’re the third one this week, and Jules asked out of a mist of pain,…third one what? O to confess to a cop-killing, said the intern blandly, and Jules fell back and lay there and sleepless his soul throbbed with Don’t patronize me! Don’t!