A story demands an ending. Narrative consists of an unstoppable progress toward a conclusion. You must feel that momentum, let it take you along, still and in motion, guided by an impersonal force that is bigger than you but not overwhelming, the velocity of a train or a car, its movement forward as powerful as the retreat from everything you leave behind.
A final period is a line in time. The gesture can be decisive and yet as pointless as drawing a line in the water or sand. It is difficult to find the beginning but it’s even harder to find the end. There will be nothing beyond that. The child begrudgingly accepts that a story has come to an end, even though the anticipation of the ending was the magnet that kept his or her attention. And they lived happily ever after. But the child sees no reason why the story can’t continue. How did they live ever after? The story comes to an end but the child wants to hear it one more time. You go back to the beginning and they see it with new eyes.
* * *
Here’s a possible ending if we look at this story under the austere clarity of facts. On May 17, 1968, Ramon George Sneyd, a Canadian citizen, paid his bill at the Hotel Portugal and took a taxi to the airport. Only the dates and the sights of Lisbon imbue his stay with a measure of consistency, a temporal arch, a spatial continuity, the bare minimum of symmetry. He had arrived nine days prior on an overnight flight from London. He would be returning to London on a flight that departed at eleven in the morning. His luggage weighed twelve kilos at Heathrow Airport. It was now two kilos heavier.
The immigration officer at the Lisbon airport noted that his passport did not have the entry stamp for Portugal. Thankfully, the man could speak English. Sneyd, nervous, polite, somewhat distracted, searched his pant and coat pockets for the other passport. He opened it to the page with the entry stamp and pointed to the misspelling in the name that had forced him to go to the Canadian embassy in Lisbon to get a new passport. He placed the two passports on the counter next to each other. He kept adjusting his glasses and refolding the coat under his arm. The two photos were nearly identical even though they had been taken a month apart. The same uncomfortable hint of a smile, the same subdued disposition, the same tie, the glasses. Perhaps the officer had already identified him and was just creating a distraction while the police arrived.
The officer studied one of the passports, then the other, then his face, spelling the name. The two versions were almost identical, Sneyd, Sneya, the smallest difference but enough to trap him, to delay him.
The tension made him aware of the weight of the revolver in his pocket, the crazy possibility of reaching for it and taking off running and shooting anyone who got in his way.
The officer returned the old passport and stamped the other with one of those metal devices that had dates and an official seal and that were used in customs, courts, police stations, prison offices where bureaucrats gathered like parasites to push papers, them on one side and the prisoner on the other, their desks always elevated so they can look down. The officer returned the new passport and made that gesture that guards always make, the one they train for their entire lives: the extended hand that authorizes you to pass, to cross the limit, a tired gesture full of contempt, like the one the prison guard had probably made after inspecting the truck with the bread cart, while he waited and tried not to sneeze from the flour falling on his face. It had been one year and fourteen days since the escape.
* * *
The plane takes off from Lisbon one bright morning in May. That could be a possible ending. The relief of avoiding capture combines with vertigo as the plane begins to tilt upward. He holds on to the armrests and watches the horizon out the window slant down. Commerce Square is a white spot gradually disappearing next to the wide metallic river. This is the last time he will see Lisbon.
When the plane stabilizes, he takes off his glasses and wipes his forehead with a handkerchief. Relief will be short-lived. In just two hours, he will have to wait in the immigration line again, show his passport, explain himself.
A plane taking off or a departing train is an excellent sign for an ending. The story is a game that remains within the strict limits of the board where pieces move in discontinuous paths. It is a powerful focal point marking a circular contour of light against the dark. The characters enter a limbo of nonexistence and we’re not allowed to rescue them. Unlike real people, they have the power to vanish without a trace. There will be no detectives investigating the last hotel room where they stayed, searching for fingerprints, hairs, any useful piece of paper. The only thing that Ramon George Sneyd or Sneya left in his room on the first floor of the Hotel Portugal, where he had spent nine days, was a mess of newspapers and an issue of Life magazine. The receptionist, Gentil Soares, saw him leave without saying goodbye, clumsily pushing the revolving door after his suitcase got stuck. He was relieved to think he would never see him again.
* * *
An ending is a place to rest. It has an element of absolution. The fugitive does not have to keep running. But Ramon George Sneyd is still on the run. He is falling apart; too much indecision, too many mistakes, missteps, and dead ends. When he traveled from Toronto to London and from London to Lisbon, he had felt propelled in a definite direction, the peak of his grand escape: Africa, ultimate freedom. At his most deluded, he had even imagined the glory of a hero’s welcome. In South Africa or Rhodesia they would surely embrace the man who had put an end to the great enemy of the white race. A few soldiers always end up saving civilization, the man with the British accent and the fake uniform at the Delegation of Biafra had said. But now he was retracing his steps and flying back to London with the gut feeling that he was heading straight into the lion’s mouth, the final dead end. It was like being an incompetent thief, once again, and sprinting for the corner that the cops are about to turn.
After the end in Lisbon, Ramon George Sneyd goes back to London and rents a room in a shady neighborhood. The only end he sees in sight is misery. The money is quickly disappearing, the English coins and bills he does not understand. He believes that taxi drivers, waiters, and newspaper vendors are probably stealing from him. He speaks to no one. He can barely sleep. He buys several newspapers and locks himself in his room to read them. The sole window faces a dark brick wall covered in rain. During the day the sound of traffic and loud music does not cease. At night, he listens to the planes leaving the airport for Africa or Asia, the Far East, the Pacific.
* * *
He reads the books that he brought from America and a few others he has purchased at street stalls. He keeps rereading the same chapters of Psycho-Cybernetics but is not able to concentrate. He reads a worn, stapled pamphlet with the title “How to Hypnotize,” written by Dr. Adolf F. Louk of the Louk International Hypnosis Institute. He tries to breathe deeply, like the pamphlet says, closes his eyes, and follows the first steps of autohypnosis, but his mind is already elsewhere. He has pounding headaches. The migraines, the heart palpitations, the sharp pain in his stomach, or perhaps in the intestine—you can also get cancer there.
He lies in bed reading newspapers, his shoes and coat still on, eating chocolate bars and potato chips. He dozes off and his own racing heartbeat wakes him up. The headaches are unbearable. He imagines sharp knives or drill bits piercing through his skull. He is sure he has the symptoms of a brain tumor. He keeps swallowing aspirins with water from the tap.
When he gets tired of the newspaper or when he is suddenly convinced that the books about psycho-cybernetics and hypnosis are a scam, he looks for one of the novels. Risking your life to rob a bank or traffic drugs is a game of idiots. It takes no effort and no risk to write books that lie to ignorant, gullible people and make millions. He reads novels about spies involved in risky international missions. He reads Tangier Assignment, where Robert Belcourt, secret agent of Her Majesty, uses the cover of a film producer who flies all over the world first class and stays at luxury hotels. Robert Belcourt is an extraordinary name, masculine and distinguished. Belcourt produces films and also writes them. On white beaches, surrounded by palms, and beside hotel pools, he meets beautiful women who sunbathe in bikinis and drink cocktails and want to be with him.
Reading this makes him think of his days in Puerto Vallarta. Memories blend with the images from the novel. The head of the British secret service sends Belcourt to every corner of the world on the most dangerous and top-secret missions, those that must leave no evidence of government involvement. Belcourt speaks French, Spanish, Italian, German. It’s his mastery of Italian that allows him to infiltrate the Mafia that controls drug trafficking in Tangier, although his real mission is to execute the head of the Soviet secret service in North Africa.
* * *
He is falling asleep, his eyes hurt, but he forces himself to continue reading. He knows that as soon as he puts the book down and turns off the light, sleep will leave him.
He counts the coins and the British bills and stacks them on the nightstand. Then he leaves his room and checks phone booths for change. He walks staring at the floor in case he finds stray coins. There are not a lot of white people on the sidewalks and inside the shops and at the newspaper stand. He sees black people, Pakistanis, women from India wearing saris, men with beards and turbans. The smell of spicy food turns his stomach and the shops are blasting Caribbean or Asian music. He walks past a newspaper stand and something makes him turn abruptly. He thought he had seen his name on a big headline, his face in the mug shot of a thief or killer the police are after. But it’s someone else.
It seems they’re not looking for him anymore. He’s still spending money every day on newspapers, but getting them at different stands, so it doesn’t call too much attention. He starts reading them on the street and bumps into people. Even when it’s raining he can’t help but take a quick first look at the sections.
He looks to the right and is about to cross the street when a black car or a red bus almost runs him over from the left. He can’t get used to the change in traffic direction. He still confuses the different values of the coins and makes mistakes when converting to dollars. The Indian or Pakistani men at the newsstand are surely giving him the wrong change. He hasn’t talked to anyone since the night with the blond woman at the Texas Bar, just a few words here and there with waiters and the hotel receptionist. He lives inside his assumed identity like a castaway on a desert island, an ape in a cage, he thinks, as he stares at himself in the small mirror by the sink in front of the bed. The mirror is the cell’s only window, the bulletproof glass that separates him from his only visitor, himself. He looks at himself and no longer has patience for another attempt at autohypnosis. He looks for bars that might be showing the TV program with the FBI’s Most Wanted. It’s possible that he is no longer in the top ten.
Not seeing even the smallest news report about the search makes him nervous. It accentuates that rare sensation he has of not existing. He will end up being erased or just vanishing like the money he counts every night.
But he knows they are still working on it, obstinately, like termites, adding every little detail he left behind, the fingerprints he forgot to wipe, perhaps the passport application, or the testimony of one of the receptionists or the person who took his passport photo. They said they had found a fingerprint on the rifle, a receipt for dry-cleaning, and later the prisoner number he thought he had scratched entirely from his transistor radio. They must be so close they don’t want to give him even the slightest clue that might put him on alert. Three thousand seventy-five FBI officers, said the person on the radio. That’s how many people were on the case. Three thousand seventy-five agents against one man and they haven’t been able to catch him—he prides himself though the feeling of exaltation doesn’t last long. Even with their laboratories and their microscopes, their networks of informers, their fancy weapons and their golden badges. How many more would be looking for him in Canada, Mexico, or even here, in London. If they’ve discovered the new name on the passport, all the checkpoints at the airports have been alerted. He doesn’t have the means of acquiring a new identity; this is a skin he can’t shed. He has no choice but to remain Ramon George Sneyd. He dislikes the name more and more, every time he says it or writes it in the logbook of the hotel.
Despite the familiar language, London feels even more alien than Lisbon. The city of Memphis and the leading newspaper of the city are offering one hundred thousand dollars for anyone who can provide information that will lead to an arrest. That was a real headline, a front-page announcement, unlike the rumor of a secret fifty-thousand-dollar bounty for whoever did what so many boasted of wanting to do, but only he had the guts to execute. The head in the crosshairs of the scope, the single shot that had left the ringing sound in his ears and pushed him back, almost making him fall inside the bathtub. His brother had told him: “There ain’t no money in killing a nigger.”
He remembered the times when he had wads of hundred-, fifty-, and twenty-dollar bills in his pockets. He peeled money from the deck, counting very fast. One part of his brain counted and the other remained vigilant. He paid the hick who sold him the ’66 Mustang two thousand dollars in one hundred twenty-dollar bills, counting them in broad daylight, in front of the bank, with a level of confidence that intimidated the other. Both were looking at the money, the hick and his son, a slob just like the father, also with glasses and looking almost as old. Both had big stomachs and sparse hair, both had that churchgoer face, both were itching with impatience, dying to get their dirty hands on his money, even though later they would say that he seemed suspicious, that he had to beg them to sell him the car. Posing together for the newspaper photos, father and son.
* * *
The receptionist would always greet him with a smile when she saw him enter with all his newspapers. She was very young. Her name was Janet Nassau. She didn’t get discouraged from all the failed attempts at starting a conversation with him. About the weather, the traffic, Canada, a modern country, with its vast open spaces. Every time he came in or left was like the first time. There was no air of familiarity even after a few days of being there. He always seemed puzzled, like someone who has entered a dark room after being under a bright sun. In ten days he did not receive a single letter or phone call. He always said his room number when asking for his key, as if he expected the receptionist to have forgotten.
She felt pity for him. She felt the urge to protect him, to defend him against whatever was tormenting him, whatever misfortune had brought him to this hotel, to England. He never made eye contact, but sometimes she caught a glimpse of the light blue eyes behind the glasses. He always left before nine in the morning like someone going to an office. He came downstairs and left the keys on her desk, which she took in an almost affectionate way. If it was raining, she reminded him to take an umbrella. He listened for a moment with his head slightly cocked, as if not understanding what she was saying. She wanted to fold his coat collar down, recommend that he use less deodorant, brush the dandruff from his shoulders. If he was going through a financial hardship and was trying to get a job, he needed to look his best.
As soon as he left, she asked the bellhop to keep an eye on the reception for a moment. She went up to his room. She knew it was risky, but she could not help it, she wanted to know more about him. Sometimes he would not return for hours, other times he was back in less than half an hour with a few newspapers under his arm, like a professor carrying books from the library. He could be a professor. A scholar at a secluded and respectable Canadian university. A professor of theology or Semitic languages, something detached from the vanities of the world.
She opened the door carefully, and closed it behind her right away. She looked around the tiny room. There was very little natural light. She was moved by the fact that he had made his bed. He had smoothed the blue quilt so there were no wrinkles and folded it perfectly below the pillow. A hand-washed shirt hung by the window. There was a small hand radio and a paperback novel on the bedside table. On the cover of the book there was a woman in a bikini seen from behind; she was looking over her shoulder, her mouth was half-open and her lips were red, she wore black eyeliner and had a wild mane of hair. She took a step toward the table and stepped on one of the newspapers. She should leave now. She could hear a vacuum cleaner somewhere in the building. She opened the drawer carefully. It was dark and she could barely see what was inside. She turned on the table lamp, making sure not to move the novel or the radio. There was a pornographic magazine inside. It looked worn and did not have a cover. There was a full-color close-up. It took Janet Nassau a few seconds to realize what she was seeing. She closed the drawer right away and felt dirty. In the closet there was a jacket and a pair of sport pants, also the small suitcase he had brought with him. The spray can of Right Guard deodorant was on a shelf by the sink, next to a plastic glass with a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste with an airline logo.
She opened the latch quietly to leave the room, feeling remorseful, afraid that he would show up right that second. She returned to her desk. It took a while to calm down. When he returned a few hours later, she tensed up and almost could not smile. She gave him the key along with an envelope from the hotel manager. The guest looked at the envelope with some confusion, perhaps thinking that it was a letter. “I have to go to the bank,” he said, not looking at her, as if talking to himself. “I will go today and get some money.”
* * *
He sat on the bed without taking his coat off and stared at the wall and the closet. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It was 2:00 p.m. on a Monday at the beginning of June, but the rain and the cold made it feel like an evening in December. The room was not much different from a prison cell. It was only missing the toilet without a lid next to the sink. In one coat pocket he had approximately twenty-five British pounds in bills and coins. In the other one, next to the bill from the hotel manager, he had his gun, the handle wrapped with tape. He had swallowed two aspirins without water. If he closed his eyes and remained still the medicine would act faster. He had to concentrate so he could get on the right frequency for psycho-cybernetic autosuggestion. Perhaps it did not work because he had missed some crucial step in the book, he had not had enough faith, he had not made a real effort to project the right image of himself, the one he wanted others to see. The blond ditz at the reception desk, for instance. If he had looked her in the eye with the necessary intensity and sent telepathic orders to put the envelope away, now he would have extra time to find the money. He could have just gone to his room and stayed there for a day or two reading his novels, looking for another article from that reporter who wrote about the wars in Africa and the mercenary armies. Then he could have left without paying by hypnotizing the bellhop and the maid and the receptionist and anyone else who crossed his path.
* * *
He seemed absentminded when he left and forgot to leave the key on the desk. The receptionist was going to call him, but stopped herself, her mouth half-open, the name on the tip of her tongue, a hint of a smile. He was probably in a hurry to get to the bank before it closed. It had stopped raining and the streets were filling up again.
He was looking for a shop he had passed several times. It was a narrow jewelry shop, tucked between an electronics store and a textiles store. It reminded him of the old shops in Lisbon, where he would see old people behind the counters, hunched over, examining jewels or watches.
He found the place. There was a pale man with gray hair discussing something with a customer. He was holding a little black box with a shiny object inside. A bell rang when he went inside. There was a glass door in the back and he could see the profile of a woman with gray hair, glasses, and a dark dress working at a small table. He walked around, looking at the display windows while the old man finished with the customer. The woman had looked up when the bell rang. A black ribbon hung from the legs of her glasses. She looked sick, like someone who has aged prematurely. He reached inside his pocket and squeezed the gun. He could feel the sweat on his palm against the tape. He should have taped his fingertips as well.
When he saw the client get ready to leave he turned around so the person could not see his face. The bell rang again as the person exited and the sound of traffic entered for a few seconds. The old man asked how he could help. His nose was covered with small purple veins and he had a pale complexion.
He looked at the scrawny arms under the short-sleeved shirt, then grabbed the man by the collar and jabbed the gun barrel in his neck. The small eyes stared at him from under the white wiry eyebrows, showing more incredulity than fear. He twisted the old man’s arm and pushed him against the wall.
The woman was suddenly gone from her post. A bit more force and the frail arm would break. He pushed the old man toward the cash register and demanded the money. A shadow and her breath alerted him but it was too late. He caught a glimpse of some heavy object and instinctively recoiled toward the exit. The blow almost knocked him to the ground but he caught himself on the counter. He could hear their heavy breathing behind him and then he felt the old man’s fingers in his eyes. The alarm went off and he felt his head was about to explode.
He pushed the old couple back as hard as he could and ran for the door. In a flash of panic he noticed that the coat had gotten caught on something and one of the pockets had torn. But he didn’t stop running. The alarm blared in the distance. He saw the entrance to the metro and pushed his way in through the rush-hour crowd. Seconds later, he was locked in a toilet stall trying to catch his breath. He fixed his clothes and checked all the pockets: the revolver, a few coins and crumpled bills, the hotel bill, a comb, the passport. How stupid of him to have taken his government ID to the robbery.
He went over to the sink, splashed water on his face, and combed his hair, parting it carefully to one side. The receptionist noticed the tear in the coat when he returned to the hotel, even though he was holding the pocket to hide it. She knew there was no way he would have made it to the bank before closing.
The next morning, she was happy to see the pocket was already sewn. It’s great to see a man who can make his own bed, wash his shirts, and use a needle and thread when necessary. He put the key on the desk and, without looking at her, said he would pay his bill when he came back. He was going to his bank, he said, not just any bank. This is a man who is going through a hard time but you know he is trustworthy, the hotel employees recognize him and say hi, they imagine what he’s going through, the death of his wife, perhaps a bad divorce that has forced him to live in a hotel.
* * *
She saw him return three hours later. Police and ambulance sirens had been sounding for a while. According to the bellhop, there had been an armed robbery at the bank nearby. He had heard that the bank teller had resisted and the burglar had shot him or hit him in the head with the gun. She had worried that it was the same bank where the guest had gone to withdraw his money. She asked him as she handed the key with a smile. He heard the question but could not understand it at first due to her accent. He seemed confused, his head cocked to one side. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and said he hadn’t heard anything. Up close, the stitching in the coat pocket looked very rough. His forehead was covered in sweat. Something fell as he pulled the money out of his pocket, and the glasses slid down his nose as he bent to pick it up. She could see the bulk of a heavy object in the stitched-up pocket.
It was the passport that had fallen out. He paid with brand-new bills, five- and ten-pound notes, and said he was checking out, he had a flight to catch that afternoon. She said she hoped it wasn’t an emergency. Once again, he stared at her lips as if he didn’t understand what she was saying.
The bellhop had been leaning on the counter but did not offer to help bring down the man’s bag. The guest had not tipped him even once in ten days. The police sirens faded and rain began to pour. There was thunder and hail. Janet Nassau felt bad for him. What if he didn’t find a taxi that could take him to the airport. He would get drenched. She saw him come down with his suitcase, a plastic bag, several newspapers under his arm, and a camera around the neck. She gave the bellhop a dirty look. The guest was feeling through his pockets, probably trying to find the keys. Janet Nassau prepared a smile for him, she was ready to ask him if he needed anything, she could call him a taxi, or perhaps it was best if he waited until the rain ceased. It thundered and she lost her train of thought. The guest put the keys on the desk and a moment later he was gone, just like that, without a word.
* * *
The rain fogged up his glasses. The street was barely visible. He could only see the moving headlights and the traffic lights. Water ran down his face, getting in his eyes. He turned a random corner and found himself on a quiet street with low houses, identical facades and red or black doors with golden doorbells. There was no way he would find a hotel on this street. But he couldn’t have stayed in the other after the robbery. As soon as he had taken off running from the bank he realized just how close the hotel was. The confusing topography of London’s streets had made him think it was actually farther.
He had walked around looking for a bank that was far enough but he had almost gone in a circle. Everything had been done so hastily. He hadn’t even taped his fingertips. He had approached the counter and discreetly pointed the gun at the bank teller under a handkerchief. The old man leaned in because he was hard of hearing and obviously hadn’t seen the gun. He pulled the handkerchief back. It seemed the old man couldn’t see well either. When he finally understood what was happening his hands began to shake and he dropped the money he had been counting. He pushed the gun through the metal bars and pressed it against the old man’s forehead. With the other hand he took the money from the counter and put it in his pocket. He demanded the money that was in the metal box. The bank teller could not stop shaking and dropped the box with all the coins and bills on the marble floor, making a loud noise.
Every set of eyes suddenly turned toward the man in the trench coat who was now running for the exit. The alarm had yet to go off. He saw his hand reach for the door almost in slow motion, and before he knew it, he was already in the street running as fast as he could. It was like running away from the jewelry shop again. Almost an exact replay of the prior day, or was it the same day just a few hours earlier, the same gray light of early morning or the rainy afternoon, now with lightning flashes anticipating a storm. He ran holding on to the revolver in one pocket and the cash in the other. Once in the hotel room, he counted the money on the bed and tried to convert it to dollars. The immediate relief would not last past the weekend, but at least he had bought himself two or three days. Tomorrow was a repetition of yesterday just like every hotel room he found was identical to the previous one.
* * *
Five o’clock on Wednesday, July 5. The stormy sky was so dark it felt like nightfall. He walked close to the walls, searching for a temporary refuge from the rain, which had soaked his shoes, his hair, and the coat. A small pink sign flashed from a nondescript building. ROOMS. He rang the bell and heard it echo toward the back of the house. It was still raining and no one was coming to the door. The neon sign was the only indication that the place was inhabited. A tall blond woman finally opened the door. No one is a mere passing silhouette, an extra, an auxiliary figure in the stories of others. Her name was Anna Thomas and she had been born in Sweden. Hotel Pax was the name of the inn. She saw the man on the sidewalk under the weak light of the vestibule. He was completely drenched and holding a suitcase, a bag, and a bunch of newspapers and books under his arm.
She invited him in, quickly, she said, out of the rain. At first the man was hesitant to come in, he seemed worried about dripping water on the carpet. She could hear the water sloshing in his shoes. They were an odd choice for this kind of weather, crocodile skin or something similar, something a tourist would wear in the Caribbean.
He asked her if she had any aspirin. He was shivering and his eyes were glossy with fever. He had a hard time articulating words. His lips moved but the sounds barely came out.
The next morning Anna Thomas brought his breakfast to the room, along with warm orange juice with honey and a tube of aspirin. She pressed her ear to the door but could not hear anything. She knocked softly. There was no answer, so she left the tray on the floor. She had not taken more than a few steps down the hall when the door opened. The guest picked up the tray quickly and closed the door. She noticed that he was still wearing the suit and the trench coat.
He stayed three days in Hotel Pax. The wallpaper in his room featured blue peacocks. He would leave around 9:00 a.m. and return half an hour later with a few newspapers and magazines under his arm. He would not leave again for the rest of the day. The second morning Anna Thomas pointed at the front page of one of his papers with a big photo of Robert Kennedy. How terrible, she said, hard to believe he too had been killed. The guest nodded and kept walking. He had paid for one week in advance. The following Saturday, Anna Thomas found the room empty.
There is a possible ending, a definite line drawn in time. The morning of June 8, Ramon George Sneyd, or Sneya, was detained at Heathrow Airport as he was boarding a plane to Brussels at 11:50 a.m. He had heard that in Brussels there was a recruitment center for mercenaries who wanted to go fight in the Congo. The police officers were friendly and they escorted him to an office to review his documents. They were almost apologetic and said it was a simple routine check. One of the officers showed a pained expression when they found the revolver in one of his back pockets.
* * *
A Liberty Chief .38 revolver. A Polaroid camera. A hi-fi deluxe transistor radio. A Noveline trench coat. A brown wool suit. A blue hat. A blue shirt. A jacket and a pair of sport pants. Two pairs of sunglasses. A Collins pocket dictionary. A plastic comb. A plastic wallet. A Portuguese coin. Twenty-one airmail envelopes. A roll of tape. A pamphlet titled “How to Hypnotize,” by Dr. Adolf F. Louk, director of the Louk International Hypnosis Institute. A bottle opener. A blank notebook. A matchbox from the New Gonevale restaurant in Toronto. A nail clipper. A map of Portugal. A spray can of Right Guard deodorant. A small shampoo bottle. A map of London. A birth certificate with the name Ramon George Sneyd. Two bars of soap. Sixty British pounds in five-pound notes. Hair pomade. A paperback novel titled The Ninth Directive. Shaving cream. Another paperback novel, quite worn, titled Tangier Assignment. A toothbrush. A book titled Psycho-Cybernetics. An inhaler. A hand mirror. Black shoe polish.
* * *
They gave him the list and asked him to read it and sign it. He searched for his glasses, first in the coat, then in the jacket, and read the document slowly, mumbling some of the words in the list under his breath. A police officer handed him a pen to sign and he thanked him profusely. He hesitated before writing “R. G. Sneyd.” One of the undercover police officers came back into the small, windowless office. He got close to him and, in a polite tone, as if suggesting a mere hypothesis, said that perhaps his name was not Ramon George Sneyd; perhaps his name was James Earl Ray. He did not respond. Leaning back in the chair, feet apart, head against the wall, he stared at the pen in his right hand, the trench coat on his lap, the mended pocket. Perhaps he thought, half in disbelief, half with an odd feeling of gratitude: I no longer have to run.