“How curious,” said Ernst scornfully. “Do you know, I don’t care at all.”

“The principal occupation of the people of this city, in light of their self-imposed imprisonment, is to build and change their town, to provide entertainment both in the labor and in the enjoyment thereafter. And the model they have chosen to follow is our city, here. It was the wall that inspired them. You must know that the mayor’s office here receives a letter from this village perhaps eight times yearly, asking for instructions on how they may reproduce the newest alterations in our city. I have seen their version, and it is so exact a rendering that it would give you the nervous ailment peculiar to white Europeans. You would lose all sense of reality and orientation. This cafe has been built, table by table, tile by tile, bottle by bottle. The very crack in the mirror inside has been reconstructed perfectly, attention having been paid to angularity, width, depth, and character. A man owns the cafe, from whom Monsieur Gargotier could not be differentiated, even by M. Gargotier himself. And, do you think, there is a dejected drunkard sitting at this table, many thousands of miles away, whose eyes have the same expression as yours, whose hands flutter just as yours, whose parts smell as foul as yours. What do you think he is doing?”

“He is wishing that you would go away.”

“That is mildly put,” said Kebap. “I wish I could know what you really thought to say.”

“You may find out easily enough. Ask that solitary winesop in Nearer Hindoostan.” Ernst had been observing a dimly lighted tower across the square. He turned to look at Kebap, to fix the teasing boy with a venomous stare, perhaps to frighten him away at last, but Kebap was not there. Ernst sighed; he would ask the proprietor to do something about the annoyance.

Every quarter hour a clock tower chimed more of the night away. Sitting alone in the Cafe de la Fee Blanche, he could hear the distant carnival noises: sirens, the flat clanging of cheap metal chimes, the music of small silver bells, shrill organ melodies, gunshots, voices singing, voices laughing. In the immediate area of the cafe, however, there were few people about — only those who had exhausted their money or their curiosity and were returning home. Occasionally, the wind brought tenuous hints of strange smells and noises. Still, Ernst had no desire to discover what they might be. Over the years, his route to the city had been long, and these days he was tired.

“I have returned,” said Kebap. He leaned casually over the iron rail of the cafe. Ernst regarded him with some boredom, realizing that this was the first time in quite a while that he had actually seen the boy, though their conversation had been growing increasingly bizarre for several hours.

“There is no such town in Nearer Hindoostan,” said Ernst. “There is no such perfect imitation of this corrupted city. The Lord of Heaven would not allow two pits of damnation in one world.”

“Of course not,” said Kebap with a wink. “Wherever did you get the idea that there might be another?”

“From the pigeons, of course,” said Ernst, greatly irritated. “The pigeons have to come from somewhere.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever seen a baby pigeon?” asked Ernst. “I don’t believe I ever have. I always wondered where the fledgling pigeons were. We see numbers of adult birds around every day; there must be a proportionate mass of immature young. It is a great mystery. And one never sees a dead or dying bird, unless it has been the victim of some accident, generally caused by cruel or careless human agency. I theorize that pigeons are immortal, and the actual carriers and disseminators of all human knowledge. This town of yours in Hindoostan is the product of unimaginative pigeons.”

“You ask dangerous questions, yaa Sidi,” said Kebap, his expression fearful. “We had wrens in Armenia, I recall. There were many newly hatched chicks, chirping pleasantly before dusk. But here, concerning the pigeons, you must learn to keep silent.”

“I believe I know who your mother might be. At least, if she is not, Eugenie would be proud to call you her son.”

“My mother stands over there,” said Kebap. “She has not clothed her breasts, as she should in the evening, only because she hopes to beguile you. She is a very energetic person, yaa Sidi, and even though the hour grows late, she still reserves a place in her heart for you.”

Ernst shook his head. The liquor had made him sick. “No, I am sorry. I have ceased hunting after hearts. Indeed, I thought no one followed that fruitless sport any longer.”

“Then there is my older sister. That is her, on the far side of the square, pretending that she is an armless beggar.”

“No, you tactless procurer. You still have much to learn.”

“I am sorry again,” said Kebap with a cruel grin. “My own body will not be available for perhaps another three years. These are the days of my carefree childhood.”

Ernst stood up and screamed at the boy. Kebap laughed and ran toward his mother.

There were few customers in the Fee Blanche after dark. Ernst did not mind. His nights were entrusted to solitude; he actually looked forward to night, when he ceased performing for the benefit of the passersby. Now his only audience was himself. His thoughts grew confused, and he mistook that quality for complexity. By this time, he was taking his whiskey straight.

There had been a woman, Ernst thought, later in his life than either of his juvenescent calamities. This woman had brought a great settling of his rampant doubts, a satisfaction of his many needs. There had been a time of happiness, he thought. The idea seemed to fit, though the entire memory was clouded in the haze of years and of deliberate forgetfulness. There was a large open space, an asphalt field with painted lines running in all directions. Ernst was dressed differently, was speaking another language, was frantically trying to hide somewhere. He couldn’t see the picture any more clearly. He couldn’t decide whether or not he was alone.

Somehow it now seemed as if it hadn’t even been his own experience, as though he were recalling the past of another person. He had forgotten very well indeed.

“Your passport, sir?” he whispered, remembering more.

“Yes, here it is,” he answered himself. “I’m sure you’ll find it all in order.” He spoke aloud in German, and the words sounded odd in the hot desert night.

“You are Ernst Weinraub?”

“With a t. My name is Weintraub. A rather commonplace German name.”

“Yes. So. Herr Weintraub. Please step over here. Have a seat.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, this is purely formality. It won’t take but a moment to clear it up.”

Ernst recalled how he had taken a chair against the gray and green wall. The official had disappeared for a short time. When he returned, he was accompanied by another man. The two spoke quietly in their own language, and quickly enough so that Ernst understood little. He heard his name mentioned several times, each time mispronounced as “Weinraub.”

Ernst shook his head sadly. He had never gone through such a scene with any border officials, and he had never spelled his name with a “t.” He stared at the hotel across the avenue and took a long swallow of whiskey. Now the Fee Blanche was empty again except for himself and M. Gargotier, who sat listening to a large radio inside the dark cave of the bar.

“Monsieur Weinraub?” It was Czerny, his gray uniform soiled, his tunic hanging unbuttoned on his thin frame. “You’re certainly dependable. Always here, eh? What an outpost you’d make.” Czerny staggered drunkenly. He supported a drunken woman with the aid of another uniformed man. Ernst’s own eyes were not clear, but he recognized Ieneth. He did not answer.

“Don’t be so moody,” said the woman. “You don’t have any more secrets, do you, Sidi Weinraub?” Czerny and the other man laughed.