namesake, the twentieth-century icon, reproduced several times over in cowboy gear. Hardly mod. I would have noticed it instantly if I had not been staring at a grinning Lamar. What now? The Elvises would point their guns at us all the time as we went about our work; they would point at me as I sat at my desk if the door were left open. And if it was closed, I’d still know that they were there, waiting to ambush me.
There had been talk of new wall decorations for the clinic, but no decision had been taken that I knew.
—Who ordered it? I asked Lamar.
—Dr Otieno. He said you’d like it—he knows about your patient—everybody does, he’s so conspicuous. Anyway, it’s on approval. Don’t you like it? We all do, so far…
I knew that Otieno wasn’t likely to spare a thought for me. This was no coincidence, or an office joke. He could only have been instructed. There must be a monitor inside the reproduction—an eye, many eyes, watching. And youcould not now sneeze on the premises, let alone scratch yourself somewhere private, without being watched by Elvis.
The rest of my afternoon was free, and I decided to go home.
—
As I emerged from our building, a tan and sinewy-looking man of medium height, sportily dressed in jeans, a light blue jacket, and a black baseball cap, and leaning against the concourse railing, seemed to decide suddenly to straighten up and start walking too. He stayed behind me to my right. On my way I paused to meditate upon the river, as I often did. The man was on my left, looking somewhat uncomfortable and hardly engrossed by the river. Soon I continued on, and a few minutes later stopped at the flower vendor, who’d been waiting in anticipation of my custom. When I looked around this time I saw that the guy had disappeared. That I was being monitored was not very surprising; but to be tailed by a physical monitor, as though I were a common criminal in an old detective yarn?
Why did I deserve this close attention? Obviously, despite my friendly exchange with Joe Green—or perhaps because of it—the DIS believed either that I knew where Presley was or that he would soon get in touch with me—and quite rightly they didn’t trust me to inform them. On the other hand, if I thought he was dangerous, I would have told them what I knew, even if that meant admitting to a deception or two. I’d already advised him to seek the Department’s help. But I also believed strongly that hedeserved the privacy and dignity to try and solve his problem—or at least to attend to it. He didn’t deserve to be arbitrarily kidnapped and—as he put it—turned into yet someone else without his consent.
FIFTEEN
IT WAS A BRIGHT , WARM EVENING , and when I reached home we decided to have a barbecue in the backyard. The setting sun glimmered through the foliage, the river in the distance looked placid and grey. And Joanie looked beautifully composed, clutching a drink after her shower, face aglow, midriff exposed above the light blue cords that are the rage this fall, a black sweater tied around her shoulders. She is practically a carnivore, eats as much meat as she can, despite the health warnings against trace radioactive buildup in the higher levels of the food chain. I prefer what’s good for my digestion, grains and greens, which she always scoffs at, saying I need meat more than she does, and it could do me less harm—meaning, I guess, that I had less at stake. And so, considerate lovers, we compromised: I atemore meat than I wished to, and she a little less. This was our world at its calmest and most blissful.
But on her tablet we now watched reports of the most recent overseas outrage. The headline banner practically shouted, in garish black letters:
HORROR INSIDE THE BORDER!
In Maskinia a busload of tourists had been waylaid and kidnapped by a militia. This had happened earlier in the afternoon and the news kept rolling in. There were pictures of the captured men and women, interviews with
There had been talk of new wall decorations for the clinic, but no decision had been taken that I knew.
—Who ordered it? I asked Lamar.
—Dr Otieno. He said you’d like it—he knows about your patient—everybody does, he’s so conspicuous. Anyway, it’s on approval. Don’t you like it? We all do, so far…
I knew that Otieno wasn’t likely to spare a thought for me. This was no coincidence, or an office joke. He could only have been instructed. There must be a monitor inside the reproduction—an eye, many eyes, watching. And youcould not now sneeze on the premises, let alone scratch yourself somewhere private, without being watched by Elvis.
The rest of my afternoon was free, and I decided to go home.
—
As I emerged from our building, a tan and sinewy-looking man of medium height, sportily dressed in jeans, a light blue jacket, and a black baseball cap, and leaning against the concourse railing, seemed to decide suddenly to straighten up and start walking too. He stayed behind me to my right. On my way I paused to meditate upon the river, as I often did. The man was on my left, looking somewhat uncomfortable and hardly engrossed by the river. Soon I continued on, and a few minutes later stopped at the flower vendor, who’d been waiting in anticipation of my custom. When I looked around this time I saw that the guy had disappeared. That I was being monitored was not very surprising; but to be tailed by a physical monitor, as though I were a common criminal in an old detective yarn?
Why did I deserve this close attention? Obviously, despite my friendly exchange with Joe Green—or perhaps because of it—the DIS believed either that I knew where Presley was or that he would soon get in touch with me—and quite rightly they didn’t trust me to inform them. On the other hand, if I thought he was dangerous, I would have told them what I knew, even if that meant admitting to a deception or two. I’d already advised him to seek the Department’s help. But I also believed strongly that hedeserved the privacy and dignity to try and solve his problem—or at least to attend to it. He didn’t deserve to be arbitrarily kidnapped and—as he put it—turned into yet someone else without his consent.
FIFTEEN
IT WAS A BRIGHT , WARM EVENING , and when I reached home we decided to have a barbecue in the backyard. The setting sun glimmered through the foliage, the river in the distance looked placid and grey. And Joanie looked beautifully composed, clutching a drink after her shower, face aglow, midriff exposed above the light blue cords that are the rage this fall, a black sweater tied around her shoulders. She is practically a carnivore, eats as much meat as she can, despite the health warnings against trace radioactive buildup in the higher levels of the food chain. I prefer what’s good for my digestion, grains and greens, which she always scoffs at, saying I need meat more than she does, and it could do me less harm—meaning, I guess, that I had less at stake. And so, considerate lovers, we compromised: I atemore meat than I wished to, and she a little less. This was our world at its calmest and most blissful.
But on her tablet we now watched reports of the most recent overseas outrage. The headline banner practically shouted, in garish black letters:
HORROR INSIDE THE BORDER!
In Maskinia a busload of tourists had been waylaid and kidnapped by a militia. This had happened earlier in the afternoon and the news kept rolling in. There were pictures of the captured men and women, interviews with
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