Free Pinball by Jerzy Kosinski Page A

admits that his fan mail amounts to about a thousand letters every week, and they have a special staff to process it. Out of that mass I’m sure they forward him only a small handful of mail.”
    “What would make them forward my letter?”
    “I don’t know yet. Something about it should make it unusual—and convincing.”
    “Keep in mind, Patrick,” said Andrea, “that the letter might not even reach the invisible boy. What if he has better things to do than read fan mail the week our letter arrives? What if he’s traveling? What if…” Her voice trailed off.
    “What if he reads the letter and doesn’t think much of you?”
    “That too,” she said.
    “Then well send several letters,” said Domostroy. “One after another.”

    Domostroy dreaded death—not illness or pain or the humiliation of disability associated with dying, but death itself: the sudden cessation of the self, the end of being, the final, arbitrary dissolution, as it were, of the entire concrete history of Patrick Domostroy.
    The thought of it came to him often, both in the daytime—during a spell of joy or pleasure—and at night, when nightmares about dying would wake him up to conscious fear of it as he lay alone in the dark.
    All men were subject to death at any time, and, he knew, for most men their past—their lived life—was the only reality death could not take from them. Still, whereas death could terminate the existence of Patrick Domostroy as a physical being, it could not terminate the existence of his music, which, being an abstract entity, would extend into the future. His music was a shadow cast before him, and as long as he was composing, Domostroy regarded himself as existing without a history, as creating the means to outlive himself.
    In his composing days Domostroy thought of his music as a key that could open the door to the future. Since many of his admirers were young, they would outlive him and thus become his standard-bearers and messengers in the years ahead. When his music was widely known and he himself famous, he kept the lock and hinges of that door well oiled. He would answer piles of letters from young men and women enthusiastic in their praise of his talent—all of them sincere, a few actually perceptive. Occasionally, for the sake of vanity, but even more for the sake of securing his future, he even encouraged them and went so far as to make an appointment and talk to one or another of these eager fans.
    He recalled one in particular, a college music student from somewhere in Michigan. She had written to say that his music meant so much to her that it would be the high point of her life if she could discuss it with him. She assured him that she would not be a nuisance and that the most she would ask of him would be to autograph her copies of his sheet music and albums. She would come to New York whenever it was convenient for him to see her,if only he would call her—collect—and say when. Enclosed with the imploring letter was a photograph of the girl looking slim and young and pretty. Domostroy telephoned her and named a weekend when he would be in New York. Sounding like an innocent, she thanked him profusely; she was not familiar with the city, she explained, and so they arranged to meet at her hotel.
    He was seated at a table in the hotel bar when she arrived, and she recognized him immediately. Tall and graceful, with wide blue eyes and an oval face framed by auburn hair, she walked over to his table and introduced herself. She wore her simple clothes well—with a sort of stylish slouch—and yet she was obviously shy. She was so flustered when she went to shake his hand that she dropped the armful of scores and albums she was clutching. As she and Domostroy scrambled to retrieve them, their heads colliding under the table, she admitted that she had been terrified he would find her clumsy and dull; surely, now he must think the worst of her.
    Domostroy tried to put her at ease. He ordered drinks