The Cloud Atlas

“Tradition holds that assassins-not radio show adventure heroes-made use of such paper. Say you wanted to kill someone,” he said, his voice sinking. “Say you wanted to kill someone and have no one find out. You wait until your quarry is sleeping. You take a billet-doux-sized sheet of washi paper and wet it”-he held up the dripping page-“don't worry, it won't disintegrate. Your prey lets out a great exhale-and you set upon him!” Gurley started, and I jumped, involuntarily, as he intended. “He awakes; he cannot breathe. He is startled, confused, he struggles, but you hold him down” Gurley said through gritted teeth. “You hold that paper right where it is. And he sucks and gasps, but all he's doing is pulling that paper tighter and tighter and tighter.” I looked away; it was too sickening, as though one of those plague-infected ulcers were spreading across his brain.

But he started speaking again, and when I looked at him once more, I saw that instead of his usual hideous smile, his face was slack and his eyes full of what had to be tears. “Why couldn't they have just done that, Belk? Why couldn't they have just-why couldn't Father Ioa-saph's angel been a real angel? Why couldn't he have leapt from his smoking basket beneath the balloon and set upon me?” He was talking solely to the paper now. “I asked them how long the pain would last, and one doctor said, ‘What do you mean?’ and the other doctor said, ‘Forever.’ I ask Lily to move with me south-the medical discharge is there, whenever I want it, a free ticket home, a check every month- and she says one thing and then another but never yes. She talks about how this is her home, but she never talks about the real reason. A goddamn leg that won't-”

What happened next is ridiculous, except that it really happened, in just this way. Gurley took the sheet he'd so carefully prepared, and slapped it to his face. And sure enough, it settled there, a second skin, each gasp further sealing it with an additional suture. He turned red, fell to the floor, and spasmed. The paper held absolutely fast. Maybe a minute passed, maybe two, and then I remembered that I wasn't Gurley, that I didn't have the stomach to stand by while someone killed himself, and that, however hard he'd tried to convince me otherwise, my first loyalty was to Lily, and she had said: take care of him.

I fell to the floor, reached to peel the paper away from his face, but lost my balance as he thrashed.

That's when he made his move.

And then the paper was on me. It smelled of whisky and spit and Gurley and something else-rice, I suppose, strange as that sounds. He couldn't get it to adhere, not as well as it had on him, but he didn't need it to; he was on top of me, pressing me down, his hands making up for anything the paper failed to do.

“And you hold him down, Sergeant. He sucks in, he gasps for air, but he is only making it worse.”

If I'd have taken a breath first, if I'd been prepared, I would have had no difficulties. I would have had the air to slither out from under him. But I hadn't taken that breath, and now, instead of fighting, I was panicking. I watched him, watched for him to watch me. Look at me, I willed him. Look at me. Wouldn't this make it harder to kill me? Even for Gurley?

I don't know. It would have made it harder for me. But for whatever the reason, he did look, and maybe he saw me, or maybe he saw Lily, or maybe he saw himself. He tore the paper away, rolled off, and stared at me while I panted there.

I slid away from him, but only a short distance; I was surprised by how tired I was. I looked back at him; he was tired, too. Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, he even looked a bit like the old Gurley, comically instead of criminally mad.

We sat like that for a while. I think it was only a minute, but if someone measured it as an hour, I wouldn't argue.

“I'm sorry,” he finally said. He waved an arm so that his apology included the whole office, the whole war, perhaps. “I'm-listen,” he said. “Help me up.”

I laughed. Well, I didn't laugh. I puffed. I rolled my head to look at him, and then rolled it back to stare straight up. His left foot was cockeyed; the leg had detached.

“Louis,” he said: my first name. I don't know why; I wish he hadn't. “I still think-I mean, we can see, but-given everything. Maybe you should go anyway to-maybe it's best.” He stopped.

“Sergeant,” he said, the old voice. Not angry, but the officer once more.

“I'll go,” I said.

“You might be able to help from there,” he said. “Truly. That fishing boat-it wasn't so far south of there. It's just that, with Lily and all-”

“I'll go,” I said, and slowly got to my feet. “First thing,” I said. “First flight I can get going anywhere. Anywhere north.”

“Good boy,” said Gurley. “Good man. I'm sorry, Sergeant-”

“Good night, sir,” I said, going to the door.