No sooner had the humor of the situation faded than a feeling of danger seized me again. This feeling stuck with me as we returned to the bedroom and took our places opposite each other.
Suddenly something occurred to me that made me hold my breath-what if I were to refuse?
What would he say if I revealed I wasn't willing to abandon my research or change the subject? What if I were determined to finish it, bringing it to its natural conclusion, and to accept whatever that would do to my chances with the Committee?
I found that this idea relieved me greatly. It was as though it lifted a great burden from my shoulders. I looked at him, considering the situation. It seemed to me that he grasped the drift of my thoughts, because he suddenly smiled derisively.
This smile unnerved me and made me wonder. Could this really be so simple? You are free to accept or refuse. If you refuse, he would say, "Fine. That's your business. I'll leave you now. I don't think we'll meet again. Farewell." Then you would accompany him to the front door saying, "Goodbye and good luck." And that would be the end of it.
Then why does he need the revolver?
For the first time, I fully realized the delicacy of my position. I lit a fresh cigarette and tried to control the trembling of my hand.
I closed my eyes and reviewed my past. The ideals I had believed in while growing up surfaced. I had gradually eliminated those that were clearly naive and unrealistic, although I had tried desperately not to give them up, and I had kept those that were important and valuable, plus those consistent with my nature and abilities. Indeed, feeling torn, I had struggled to reevaluate them every so often and to develop them to accommodate the continual changes in the modern world, avoiding as many pitfalls and labyrinths as possible, although throughout all this I was exposed to a great deal of harm and innumerable dangers.
I thought back over where my life had been heading before the Committee interviewed me and how I suffered humiliation at its "hand." However, I didn't forget that the assigned research had given some meaning to my life after a long spell of hopelessness.
I opened my eyes to find him looking at me.
I laughed, hoping it would be infectious, and said in a voice I tried to keep normal, "How about a cup of coffee? I absolutely can't keep my eyes open."
"As you like."
We went to the kitchen. I looked at the small mirror hanging in the hall and saw that my eyes were bloodshot.
When we reached the kitchen I asked him, "Have you any objection to drinking Turkish coffee this time?"
He c.idn't reply; he was busy checking the contents of the "Hall Library" as I called it. I interpreted his last response as acceptance.
I took the medium-sized coffeepot from one of the shelves and asked him again, "How do you prefer yours?"
"Not too much sugar."
He picked up the closest book and began to turn its pages with one eye still on me. I couldn't find a small spoon on the drain board, so I opened the utensil drawer. My eyes went right to the butcher knife, that large, shiny blade with a tapered tip.
My — zeart leaped between my ribs. I got ahold of myself and took the spoon that I wanted, then closed the drawer.
I put the coffee and sugar in the pot, filled it with water, stirred the mixture well, and put it on the small burner I had lit.
I washed the spoon and dried it, then opened the drawer and set the spoon by the knife, looking at its sharp edge. Without taking my eyes off the knife, I pushed the drawer in slowly, deliberately leaving it ajar.
I stood in front of the coffeepot until it began to bubble and then foam up as it came to a boil. It surged higher until it almost overflowed the rim.
I quickly removed it from the heat and turned off the burner. I put two cups beside it.
For the first time in ages, I felt strength and purpose pervade my being.
Five
This time when I arrived for my appointment, the Committee had already gathered. The old porter admitted me at once.
I found its members, naturally except for Stubby, seated behind a long table set crosswise in the hall. They were in the same order I had seen the previous time, with the decrepit old man who couldn't see or hear in the middle.
I noted the unmitigated atmosphere of mourning evidenced by the black ribbons on their jacket collars and the floral wreaths arranged at one side of the room, each wrapped with shiny black cloth. Also attached to each was a memorial placard with the name of the sender in prominent letters.
The members of the Committee began to eye me, though still examining the files in front of them. Mean while, curious, I read the names of the mourners. Right in front I discovered the names of the American president Carter and his wife, the first lady, his vice president, Walter Mondale, and his national security advisor, Brzezinski. I also saw the names of his predecessor, Kissinger, and several former American presidents such as Nixon and Ford, as well as of Rockefeller, Rothschild, MacNamara (president of the World Bank), the president of Coca-Cola, directors of international banks, presidents of companies that manufacture weapons, chewing gum, drugs, cigarettes, electronics, and petroleum, and in addition, the leaders of France, West Germany, England, Italy, Austria, the heads of Mercedes, Peugeot, Fiat, Bedford, Boeing, and the emperor of Japan.
I easily found the names of the Israeli prime minister, Begin, and his ministers Dayan and Weizman; and the presidents of the military governments of Chile, Turkey, Pakistan, Indonesia, the Philippines, and Bolivia; and of Mubutu (the president of Zaire), and of Arab kings and presidents; members of the former shah of Iran's family; Mama Doc (the first lady of Haiti); the presidents of Communist China and Romania, of both North and South Korea, and the leaders of the Australian people.
The names of many luminaries from the Arab world were there: directors of leading political parties, senior officials in charge of security, information, defense, planning, and construction, the authorized agents of foreign companies, not to mention the more luminous "doctors," among them my well-known countryman.
When I finally turned my attention to the Committee members, I sensed that since the last time I had seen them they had undergone some change I couldn't put my finger on. This aroused my curiosity further. I looked them over, searching for some explanation. Their scowling faces weren't new to me. In spite of the dark glasses most of them wore, I recognized the same individuals I had met twice before.
Unable to think, for a third time I failed to count them. Nevertheless I was certain their number hadn't changed, except, of course, for Stubby. His place next to the old man was empty. It was swathed in black, like his picture, which hung on the wall as a reminder of his demise.
I solved the mystery only after looking at the old maid several times. When I noticed she was wearing a military uniform with red ribbons edged in gold, I finally realized what I had been oblivious to from the beginning.
Perhaps I was so slow to figure this out because I was accustomed to seeing three officers among the Committee members. This number had registered in my unconscious from the first moment. I was content with it and didn't pay attention to their identities. To me, they all looked alike because of the uniforms.
Now I looked closely at the other officers to determine their sex and identities. I searched for the third until, with difficulty, I found him. Wearing civilian clothes had greatly altered his appearance.
This phenomenon really piqued my curiosity. Having been trained by the events of the last year to solve mysteries and riddles, my mind raced, trying to come up with an explanation.