28

DESPITE THE FAMILIAR domesticity of Mrs. Santorelli's apartment, Robert's anxiety was corroding his ability to defend himself from within. The separation from Maria and Joey, who represented the very core of his life, had left him dangling and inert. Helplessness and frustration had wreaked havoc on his nervous system.

Only a few weeks ago he had been content in his superiority. After all, wasn't he privy to the most intimate secrets of an entire civilization, one that had defied the understanding of those who lived through it? The ancient Egyptians had believed that paying obeisance to a sacred animal or sending their dead into tombs with all their possessions would assure them immortality in paradise. If his academic discipline had allowed him to be judgmental by today's values, he would have called them naive fools.

Lying awake in one of Mrs. Santorelli's spare bedrooms, tossing and sweating on tumbled sheets, he tried to lift himself out of the contemporary world, push his sense of time forward a few thousand years, then look back with all the investigatory instincts of an archaeologist.

Civilization around the year 2000, he concluded, was technologically superior but morally bankrupt. People killed, maimed, and tortured each other indiscriminately. They worshiped the mechanics of destruction. They threw bombs in airports and bus stations. They took people hostage for obscure reasons. Murder was an honorable tactic in the service of political aspiration. Creatures of that era even showed pictures of murder and suffering as entertainment. If one were to be judgmental, one would conclude that they would have been better off worshiping dogs.

A light knock at the front door alerted him. He might have been dozing. He was never sure. Lifting himself off the damp sheets, he put on his pants and walked barefoot to the doorway, peering along the corridor. All night long he had heard whispered voices. Did these people ever sleep? Even Mrs. Santorelli's flapping slippers seemed to echo perpetually through the apartment, a sound as ubiquitous as the garlicky smells of her cooking.

He had seen on television pictures of Maria in the cap and gown of her graduation. It was too painful to watch, too heartrending. It merely triggered his imagination, taking his thoughts down dark alleys of speculation. My Maria. My Joey. When he thought of them his body went numb with fright.

It was the Pencil who opened the door. A man entered. He was youngish, grim-faced. He carried a briefcase. Robert knew instantly that he was a stranger. The man followed the Pencil to the dining room. Robert moved cautiously along the corridor. He was sure the stranger's presence had something to do with Maria and Joey, with the President. Perhaps it was part of the negotiation.

When he reached the edge of the dining room he flattened himself against the wall and listened. He heard the tearing of paper. Oddly, there was little conversation between them. It was possible the man was not even sitting down.

"And the Padre, he is all right?" the Pencil asked.

"I am only the courier," the man said. "But it had to be put in your hands personally."

"This place is still safe?" the Pencil asked.

"Apparently. Besides, your people seemed to have it well staked out. I was stopped three times."

"Good," the Pencil said. There was silence. They might have been shaking hands. Robert remained flattened against the wall as the man turned down the corridor and let himself out the door.

When he had gone, Robert went into the dining room. The Pencil looked up, startled, then quickly settled.

"Only a paper with names from the CIA," he said.

"So something has begun to happen," Robert said. He looked intently at the Pencil, who held the paper in his hands. "That then is my business."

"They are only names." He seemed oddly hesitant, then handed the paper to Robert. He looked at it, immediately recognizing both names and the references to Berkeley and Amherst. Robert watched as the paper trembled in his hands.

The Pencil shrugged. He would stonewall now, Robert knew. He saw his eyes dart to the telephone.

"If it gets Maria and Joey home, what difference does it make?" the Pencil said.

Incredibly, the Padre had gotten the government to act in tandem with his organization.

"Then there are things you must do," Robert said. No, he decided, he would not be judgmental. It would be futile. The Padre did, indeed, have an acute understanding of human motivation. As Robert turned to leave the room, he stopped. The Pencil had picked up the phone. He had already dialed one number.

Suddenly Robert spoke. The Pencil's dialing finger paused in midair.

"Please don't hurt them," he said.

The Pencil resumed his dialing.