34

"YOU DON'T EAT, YOU GET WEAK," Mrs. Santorelli scolded. Yet another bowl of pasta had gotten cold on the table in front of him.

"I'm sorry," Robert said, his attention riveted to the television set.

"You watch too much TV. Like my Giovanni."

It was incredible how little these momentous events interested her. He was sure she would simply dismiss what was happening as "man's work." The fact was that this "man's work" was going on directly under her nose. Over her telephone lines orders were given that had a direct impact on the lives of millions of people. It was all so banal. A little man sitting at an ancient table, using an old-fashioned black dial telephone to set in motion brutal and illegal activities.

The man who had arrived with a letter earlier that day had come again late in the evening and given the Pencil another letter. This time Robert did not press his interest. There was no point in getting information that would upset him. He would know soon enough.

The television news was nonstop, the speculation endless and repetitive. But the announcement of the death of the Saudi brought him out of his chair.

"You've murdered him," Robert shouted at the Pencil, who was on the phone at the time. The Pencil waved him quiet. He pictured Maria and Joey meeting the same fate, riddled with bullet holes, dumped by the roadside like garbage.

"You must calm down, Robert," the Pencil said gently.

Not a word came out of the White House, except that the President continued to deny to his top officials that he had anything to do with these events. More lies. He was on the point of shutting off the set when another bulletin stopped him.

He turned up the volume. The commentator, with great excitement, announced that the Syrian, Libyan, and Iranian leaders had jointly and unilaterally forced the release of all hostages being held with groups with whom they could hold a dialogue. The language was stilted but the meaning unmistakable. They had buckled. His heart pounded with joy.

"He's done it," he shouted.

The Pencil, too, showed rare emotion. He rose and came into the kitchen to watch the television. But the events still did not lure Mrs. Santorelli, who remained at her stove stirring a pot with a wooden spoon.

The coverage centered now on scenes of hostages being bused to airports, giving thanks for their release. There was even coverage of men identified as terrorists shooting their guns in the air. It was bizarre. As a gesture of acknowledgment, world leaders were now calling for a release of the new hostages by "whoever was responsible."

Robert let the images flow over his consciousness. His elation had quickly subsided. He waited for word of Maria and Joey. The commentators speculated, but no word was forthcoming. Time passed and still no word came. The waiting was torture. The Pencil went back to his telephone.

"Maybe it wasn't enough," Robert said to the Pencil.

The Pencil understood, looked at Robert, and nodded.

"We still have the Syrian girl," Robert said. He was surprised, for he felt no shame.