The younger man asks me, "What would you give me if I found your brother?"
I tell him, "I have no more money."
He laughs. "But you can wire for money from abroad. All foreigners are rich."
"Not me. I couldn't even buy you a drink."
He laughs. "It doesn't matter. Another liter, on me."
The waitress brings more wine and says, "That's the last one. I can't serve you anymore. If we don't close up we'll get into trouble with the police."
The old man continues to drink next to us, saying from time to time, "Yes, I knew you wel), you two, you were already pretty wild in those days. Yes, yes."
The younger man says to me, "I know that your brother is hiding in the forest. I've sometimes seen him off in the distance. He's made clothes out of army blankets and he goes barefoot even in winter. He lives on herbs, roots, chestnuts, and small animals. He has long gray hair and a gray beard. He has a knife and matches, and he smokes cigarettes that he rolls himself, which proves that he must come into town sometimes at night. Maybe the girls who live on the other side of the cemetery and who sell their bodies know him. One of them at least. Perhaps she sees him secretly and gives him what he needs. We could organize a search. If we all look for him we could trap him."
I stand up and hit him.
"Liar! That isn't my brother. And if you want to trap anyone, count me out."
I hit him again and he falls from his chair. I tip over the table and keep screaming: "He's not my brother!"
The waitress shouts in the street: "Police! Police!"
Someone must have telephoned because the police arrive very quickly. Two of them. On foot. The tavern falls silent. One of the policemen asks, "What's going on? This place should have closed up long ago."
The man I hit whimpers, "He hit me."
Several people point at me: "It was him."
The policeman picks the man up. "Stop complaining. You're not even scratched. And you're plastered as usual. You'd better go home. You'd all better go home."
He turns to me. "I don't know you. Show me your papers."
I try to escape but the people around me grab me. The policeman digs through my pockets and finds my passport. He studies it for a long time and says to his colleague, "His visa is expired. Has been for months. We'll have to bring him in."
I struggle but they put handcuffs on me and lead me out onto the street. I stagger and am having trouble walking, so they practically carry me all the way to the station. There they take off my handcuffs, lie me down on a bed, and leave, shutting the door behind them.
The next morning a police officer questions me. He is young, his hair is red, and his face is covered with red spots.
He says to me, "You have no right to remain in our country. You must leave."
I say, "I don't have money for the train. I don't have any money at all."
'I'll notify your embassy. They'll repatriate you."
I say, "I don't want to leave. I have to find my brother."
The officer shrugs. "You can come back whenever you want. You could even move here permanently, but there are rules for that. They'll explain to you at your embassy. As for your brother, I'll look into the matter. Do you have any information about him that could help us?"
"Yes, I have a manuscript written in his own hand. It's on the living room table in my apartment above the bookseller's." "And how did you come into possession of this manuscript?" "Someone left it in my name at the reception desk."
He says, "Odd, very odd."
One morning in November I am summoned to the policeman's office. He tells me to sit and hands me my manuscript.
"Here, I'm giving it back to you. It's just fiction, and it has nothing to do with your brother."
We are silent. The window is open. It's raining and cold. At last the officer speaks. "Even as far as you're concerned we haven't found anything in the municipal archives."
I say, "Naturally. Grandmother never declared me. And I never went to school. But I know that I was born in the capital."
'The archives there were totally destroyed by the bombing. They're coming for you at two this afternoon."
He added that very quickly.
I hide my hands under the table because they are shaking.
"At two? Today?"
"Yes, I'm sorry. It's so sudden. But I repeat, you can come back whenever you like. You can come back permanently. Many emigrants have. Our country currently belongs to the free world. Soon you won't even need a visa."
I tell him, "That will be too late for me. I have a bad heart. I came back because I wanted to die here. As for my brother, perhaps he never existed."
The officer says, "Yes, that's probably true. If you keep going on about him people will think you're insane."
"Is that what you think too?"
He shakes his head. "No, I only think you're confusing reality with fiction. Your fiction. I also feel that you should return to your country, think things over, and then come back. Permanently perhaps. That's what I hope for you, and for me."
"Because of our chess games?"
"No, not just that."
He stands and extends his hand.
"I won't be here when you leave, so I'll say good-bye to you now. Return to your cell."
I return to my cell. My guard says to me, "It looks like you're leaving today."
"Yes, so it seems."
I lie down on my bed and wait. At noon the bookseller arrives with her soup. I tell her I have to go. She cries. She pulls a sweater out of her bag and says, "I knitted you this. Put it on, it's cold out."
I put on the sweater and say, "Thank you. I still owe you two months' rent. I hope the embassy will pay it."
She says, "Who cares? You're coming back, aren't you?"
'I'll try."
She leaves in tears. She has to open her shop.
My guard and I are sitting in my cell. He says, "It's funny to think that you won't be here tomorrow. But you'll come back, of course. Meanwhile, I'm canceling your debt."
I say, "No, absolutely not. I'll pay you as soon as the embassy people come."
He says, "No, no, it was all just for fun. And I cheated."
"Ah, so that's why you always won."
"Don't hold it against me. I just can't help cheating."
He sniffles and wipes his nose.
"You know, if I have a son I'll give him your first name."
I tell him, "Give him my brother's name instead, Lucas. That would make me happiest."
He thinks.
"Lucas? That's a nice name. I'll talk it over with my wife. Maybe she won't object. Anyway, it's not up to her. I'm the one who decides in my house."
"I'm sure of it."
A policeman comes to collect me from my cell. My guard and I go out into the courtyard, where there is a well-dressed man with a hat, tie, and umbrella. The stones in the courtyard glisten in the rain.
The man from the embassy says, "A car is waiting for us. I've already taken care of your debts."
He speaks in a language that I shouldn't understand but do anyway. I motion to my guard.
"I owe that man a certain amount. It's a debt of honor."
"How much?"
He pays, takes me by the arm, and leads me to a big black car parked in front of the house. A chauffeur in a visored cap opens the doors.
The car pulls away. I ask the man from the embassy if we can stop for a minute in front of the bookseller's on Central Square, but he just looks at me uncomprehendingly and I realize that I have spoken to him in my old language, the language of this country.
The chauffeur drives quickly; we pass the square, we're already on Station Street, and soon my little town is well behind us.
It's hot in the car. Through the window I watch the villages parade by, the fields and poplars and acacias, my country's landscape beaten by the rain and the wind.