The third time we passed the same rock, I put a pebble on it. The fourth time, there were two. The fifth time, the pebbles made an arrow pointing at my shoes. Do not blame the mountain yet, Nietzsche said.
Sils, summer 1883. I was walking with him, and the backstage door I had come through had disappeared. Looking down, I saw my footprints standing up out of the mud: two black soles with nobody in them, walking faster than I could.
When I chased them, they stopped. When I stopped, they walked on. Nietzsche crouched to investigate and the left footprint stepped on his hand. The right one went politely around him. I asked where they were going. They led us back to the rock. Nietzsche took out paper to write. I held his pen. Let us get home before you publish.
The footprints refused. They circled the rock, and the road behind us circled with them. The lake flipped up onto the mountain; the mountain moved beside the lake. I sat down. The impression left by my backside began to stir. I got up quickly. Things were complicated enough already.
Nietzsche told me to take off my shoes. I did. The shoes immediately chased their own footprints, apparently pleased to have lost their owner. He handed me his stick as I stood barefoot. Now what? Wait, he said. I reminded him that the soles of my feet were not writing materials.
He tried trapping them beneath his hat. With the left footprint caught, the right ran round the brim, faster and faster. He held the hat down while I caught the returning shoes. The mountain stopped moving, but the lake remained halfway up it. Several fish watched us from treetops.
I put my shoes on the wrong feet and took one step backwards. The footprints hesitated. They conferred with a sound like two books slapping together. Then one went forwards and the other backwards, tearing an opening in their own road.
“Now,” I said. We stepped through the tear and arrived outside his lodging. The mountain dropped back into place. Two fish remained on the windowsill. Nietzsche stopped and looked down. His own footprints were looking up, evidently with something to say.
I did not wait to hear it. As I hurried to open the door, the red ticket stub fell from my pocket and the unoccupied shoes stepped on it. I reached for it; they moved forward. I moved back; they did too. Nietzsche stood beside us taking notes, showing no intention of helping.