"I like to read about the ovens," Taft said.

"What do you mean, the ovens? Are you serious?"

"Atrocities. I like to read about atrocities. I can't help it. I like to read about the ovens, the showers, the experiments, the teeth, the lampshades, the soap. I've read maybe thirty or forty books on the subject. But I Like kids best. Putting the torch to kids and their mamas. Smashing kids in the teeth with your rifle butt. Laying waste to villages full of kids. Firing into ditches full of kids, infants, babies, so forth. That's my particular interest. Atrocities in general with special emphasis on kids."

"I can't bear reading about kids."

"I can't either, Gary."

"The thought of children being tortured and killed."

"It's the worst thing there is. I can't bear it. But I've read maybe eight books on it so far. Thirty or forty on the ovens and eight on the kids. It's horrible. I don't know why I keep reading that stuff."

"There must be something we can do," I said.

"It's getting to be time to turn toward Mecca. The black stone of Abraham sits in that shrine in old Mecca, the name of which I'll have to look up again because I keep forgetting it. Not that it matters. A name's a name. A place could just as easily be another place. Abraham was black. Did you know that? Mary the mother of Jesus was black. Rembrandt and Bach had some Masai blood. It's all in the history books if you look carefully enough. Tolstoy was threeeighths black. Euclid was sixfifths black. Not that it means anything. Not that any of it matters in the least. Lord, I think I'm beginning to babble."

He took off the dark glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose in true weariness. His eyes were shut. He began to laugh quietly into the newspaper between his knees, preparing in his own way for whatever religious act was scheduled to follow.

I went downstairs to see what I could find out about the rumor concerning new uniforms. There was nobody around and no sign of uniforms, new or old. I decided to walk over to Zapalac's office, which was located in a cinder-block structure only a hundred yards away. I didn't bother getting a coat. It wasn't very cold and I took my time walking over there. The building was full of small dark rooms, all unoccupied. The walls of Zapalac's office were covered with posters, printed slogans, various symbols of this or that movement. His scarf was there but he wasn't.

In my room at five o'clock the next morning I drank half a cup of lukewarm water. It was the last of food or drink I would take for many days. High fevers burned a thin straight channel through my brain. In the end they had to carry me to the infirmary and feed me through plastic tubes.