THE TELEPHONE rang in the afternoon of Friday November 23 in the living room of Samuel Farakhan’s residence. Farakhan was sitting listening to Schoenberg on the record player. Dressed in gray velvet pants and an anthracite-gray crew-neck sweater, he turned the turntable off and went to answer. On the other end of the line was Edward Turrentine, who had told Farakhan that he was a cultural attaché but took care of other issues, and who now informed him of the death of Lajos in Budapest almost two weeks previously.
“At least,” said Farakhan, “you are not telling me he is alive so as to get information out of me.”
“We’ll always be happy to hear what you have to say,” said Turrentine. “But this is not the time for that. Another day, maybe?”
“Maybe. What became of the body?”
“Mass grave.”
“Very well,” said Farakhan. “I must get off the line now.”
“My heartfelt condolences,” said Turrentine. “Goodbye.”
Farakhan cradled the receiver. Then he picked it up again, and when he got the operator he gave the number of his usual travel agent in Rouen.
“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle,” he said when he got through. “I would like to get to Cuba as soon as possible.”
He waited as he was handed over to another employee. He repeated his request. He waited as the employee consulted files. Standing next to the phone with the receiver to his ear and a Player’s between his lips, he seemed alert and impassive, showing no sign of feeling any great pain.