'Darling, we're coming round for you right away. We'll be there shortly.'
He splashes some water on his face. It's almost one in the morning. This is truly insane. Perhaps he's only dreaming, or perhaps it's just a stupid joke. He doesn't know whether to go back to bed or put on his best suit. He goes to the window and stares out into the empty street. He looks at the wet cobblestones glistening in the glow of the streetlights. Then the glare of car headlights swings into the street and a black limousine pulls up in front of his house. A man jumps out, opens the back door and Ella steps out to bring him the good news in person.
He goes to get dressed.
Two men are waiting for him beside the car. To him, they are indistinguishable from the men who had recently checked his ID and confiscated his film. They have grey faces and are dressed in black, but this time they flash their teeth in a smile of official warmth. Apologetically, they ask to see his ID and they look pleased to confirm that it's really him. They put him in the back seat and drive off immediately, leaving Ella on the pavement, waving. She's delighted, for after all it was her idea, her contact, and she believes that
his fortunes, and therefore her own fortunes, will now improve. He will get work, the work will bring him money, the money will buy them a house, the house will make them happy and she'll finally have him all to herself.
He settles into the back seat and watches the city go by. He doesn't know how long the journey will take. He doesn't even know what he's going to say to the head of state, if he really does get a hearing. Or what he will request. Although he tries not to admit it to himself, he's excited. It's as though Satan himself had invited him to a mountaintop and let him gaze down upon all the world's riches.
All this is yours.
Yes. But how shall I ever repay you, O Prince of Darkness?
We'll talk about that later.
No, I need to know now. Do you want loyalty? My freedom? My life? My soul?
The car turns on to a narrow, sandy road. It stops in front of a gateway, the wrought-iron gate opens, they go down a sand-covered drive between two rows of tall evergreens and come to a halt in front of a low, harshly lit building. They ask him to get out.
Cars are parked everywhere. Dozing chauffeurs sit in those closest to him. Some figures stagger about in the distance. Light and the din of voices flows from the open windows. A dignified fellow in a flawlessly tailored suit walks towards him. He stops in front of him. 'How was the ride, sir?'
He thanks him for asking. The man motions Fuka to follow him. They enter a hall, with several leather armchairs in its centre. The panelled walls are conspicuously bare, and the only other objects in the room are several glass cases, some filled with water, others with sand from which twisted branches and exotic plants protrude. 'Could I trouble you to sit down here for a moment?' the man says.
In one of the glass cases he can see the brown-and-black body of a snake. He gets up, but then, fearing he might be disrupting some kind of protocol, sits down again. What commitments does a man make when he
accepts help? Does he surrender his freedom, or at least his independence? What value can work have when it is purchased with a loss of independence? What seems like an answer to his prayers might merely open the door to his downfall.
He is startled out of his thoughts by the sound of police sirens outside. He gets up and then sits down again. He can hear car doors slamming and the sound of voices. Then two uniformed men come in carrying a stretcher. He looks at them, but they pay no attention to him. They put the stretcher on the ground and wait.
The figure on the stretcher is motionless and almost entirely concealed by a blanket that reaches up to its mouth. Its head is bound in a white turban of bandages, its eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. Only its nose is visible, protruding sharply from its face. Fuka is gripped by anxiety as he stares at this strange creature.
Again, the man who seems to be a master of ceremonies appears. 'The president is ready to receive you.' Fuka gets up. The two uniformed men pick up the stretcher. They walk through several adjoining salons, where a reception must recently have taken place. Tables are scattered with empty glasses and dirty plates; scraps of food are drying out on large platters; swarms of flies circle over bits of caviar, chunks of ham in aspic, the crumbled wreckage of slabs of liver pâté, half-eaten pieces of chicken and turkey.
The last room he enters is full of people talking loudly. The moment he enters, the conversation dies. Deeply embarrassed, he looks around. He notices that there are chairs with high backs set up in a square, and that in the middle of this square is a magnificent armchair, almost a throne, which seems out of place here. It has gilded legs and a wooden back topped by a magnificent crown of carved wood set with diamonds. An old man in a black robe sits huddled in the chair.
At first he's not sure it is the president, for he has never seen him dressed like this. But that rather stocky figure, those grey eyes, those thick glasses, those fleshy lips, all undoubtedly belong to the head of state.
Why have they invited him here in the middle of the
night, with so many drunken guests around? He recognizes some from their pictures in the paper. He also recognizes the enormous black man trying to look dignified in a chair beside the throne: he is an official guest here on a state visit. The mystery deepens. What's going on? Will they bring him a camera and order him to film some insane midnight audience? An audience with whom?
With himself.
At that moment, a dwarfish little man pops up behind the president, as if from nowhere. He has enormous ears set so high on his skull they look like horns. He whispers something to the president. Fuka cannot hear the individual words, but he thinks he hears his own name and the word 'terrorist'. The face of the old man lights up in recognition. He opens his mouth as if to smile, and nods to him: 'Well, at last. Come forward!'
Because the words are obviously directed at him, Fuka approaches the throne. The men with the stretcher push in behind him. The old man watches them. When they place the stretcher at his feet, something in his stiff face moves, a barely perceptible grimace, or perhaps an expression of satisfaction.
Fuka doesn't know whether or not he is permitted to say anything, since he hasn't been spoken to, and in any case he doesn't know what he'd say even if he could, so he merely bows. The black man examines him with interest.
'Well now, my boy,' says the old man, speaking down to him from his throne. 'You submitted your appeal and here you are. With a stroke of the pen, I could have sent you to a place from which you would never return. But you're to have another chance, and you're here to explain yourself. So, what do you say? How do you wish to defend yourself?'
The old man tries to fix his eyes on him, but can't. They keep shifting, seeming to fade and then re-emerge from some inner depths. They are moist, filled with tears. 'You are silent. But then, when you raised your hand in anger, what then? You didn't hesitate then, you killed.'
Fuka is flabbergasted, and can only shake his head. The little man with the big ears steps forward and whispers
something in the old man's ear. The old man nods. His eyes now appear to turn completely inward, searching for something in the depths. Then, aloud, he says something perhaps meant for himself, perhaps for the adviser or perhaps for everyone else: 'It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. The one about the snakes, I remember, yes, I remember. You delighted us all. Do you have children?'
He shakes his head.
'And a wife?'
He doesn't have a wife, not really.