conversation had little meaning or interest for him.
Then the conversation ended, and the stranger went on, and the man in the mackinaw followed, until the stranger got into a taxi and went away and left the man in the mackinaw standing on the curb.
As soon as he was sure the taxi was out of sight, he came forward and talked with the man in the mackinaw and found he was unimportant, ineffectual, and harmless. But he did know the man Kifka's address; in that he had been lying to the stranger.
'Show me where he lives,' he said.
'Sure. Sure.' He was a weasel in a mackinaw, and his name was Morey.
He and Morey rode another taxi, and left it two blocks from Kifka's address. It was awkward bringing Morey along, but he was afraid Morey might otherwise go to Kifka's place himself and warn the stranger of the man who was following him. It was best to bring Morey along.
Morey was full of questions until he showed him the gun and said, 'Shut your stupid face.' Then Morey was quiet. They crouched together in the driveway across from where Kifka lived, and waited. Morey had pointed out Kifka's windows, and they were all lit up.
The stranger had to be taken care of and then everything was done, and it was back to Mexico forever, this time with two suitcases full of money. It might be a little tricky getting the money across the border, but ways could be found. The spare tire full of cash instead of air, for instance. There were always ways.
He was dreaming of Mexico, and money, and didn't at first see the stranger come out the doorway across the street and start down the steps. When he did, he jerked his arm up, the heavy gun pointing, and Morey, the stupid one, shouted, 'Hey!'
He turned the gun and blew Morey's loud head off. He didn't think about doing it, he just did it..
But it was too late to change anything. Across the way, the stranger was leaping for cover. He pushed Morey's falling body away and fired twice at the stranger, but missed both times.
And then the stranger shot back, and something stung his earlobe, like touching it for just a second with an electric wire.
He'd never had anyone shoot bullets at him before. It was terrifying. It was more frightening than he could have imagined.
He ran.
When he finally calmed down, he realized he shouldn't have run, that was the last thing he should have done. He'd lost the stranger now; the hunter could very easily at this point become the hunted.
He had to know where the stranger was, he had to. It was necessary that he be behind the stranger, able to see without being seen, because the alternative was horror. If the stranger was not at all times in front of him, he would never know if he was behind him.
He thought of fleeing to Mexico, right now, forgetting everything and only getting away from here, but he just couldn't do it. In Mexico, in Europe, anywhere on earth it would be the same; he was too afraid of the stranger to permit him to stay alive.
But the mistake had already been made. He went back, and Kifka's windows were now dark. The stranger bad gone, of course, no telling where.
Behind him? He kept looking over his shoulder. Tendrils of ice kept creeping inside his coat to touch his spine. The back of his neck ached. His hands wouldn't stay still.
He went back to the rented room, taking a devious route, doubling back time after time, making wick-detours around all pools of darkness. It didn't seem he'd been followed, but there was no way to be sure.
In the room, he arranged glassware on the window sill so it would fall and break if anyone opened the window. He pushed the dresser against the door. Even then, he slept only fitfully, his dreams chaotic, full of scarlets and ebonies, glinting with swords and guns, a-sting with bullets.
Most of the next day he spent in the room, wailing. He dozed sometimes, and stood staring out the window sometimes, and paced the floor sometimes. When, late in the afternoon, he finally understood that what he was waiting for
Then the conversation ended, and the stranger went on, and the man in the mackinaw followed, until the stranger got into a taxi and went away and left the man in the mackinaw standing on the curb.
As soon as he was sure the taxi was out of sight, he came forward and talked with the man in the mackinaw and found he was unimportant, ineffectual, and harmless. But he did know the man Kifka's address; in that he had been lying to the stranger.
'Show me where he lives,' he said.
'Sure. Sure.' He was a weasel in a mackinaw, and his name was Morey.
He and Morey rode another taxi, and left it two blocks from Kifka's address. It was awkward bringing Morey along, but he was afraid Morey might otherwise go to Kifka's place himself and warn the stranger of the man who was following him. It was best to bring Morey along.
Morey was full of questions until he showed him the gun and said, 'Shut your stupid face.' Then Morey was quiet. They crouched together in the driveway across from where Kifka lived, and waited. Morey had pointed out Kifka's windows, and they were all lit up.
The stranger had to be taken care of and then everything was done, and it was back to Mexico forever, this time with two suitcases full of money. It might be a little tricky getting the money across the border, but ways could be found. The spare tire full of cash instead of air, for instance. There were always ways.
He was dreaming of Mexico, and money, and didn't at first see the stranger come out the doorway across the street and start down the steps. When he did, he jerked his arm up, the heavy gun pointing, and Morey, the stupid one, shouted, 'Hey!'
He turned the gun and blew Morey's loud head off. He didn't think about doing it, he just did it..
But it was too late to change anything. Across the way, the stranger was leaping for cover. He pushed Morey's falling body away and fired twice at the stranger, but missed both times.
And then the stranger shot back, and something stung his earlobe, like touching it for just a second with an electric wire.
He'd never had anyone shoot bullets at him before. It was terrifying. It was more frightening than he could have imagined.
He ran.
When he finally calmed down, he realized he shouldn't have run, that was the last thing he should have done. He'd lost the stranger now; the hunter could very easily at this point become the hunted.
He had to know where the stranger was, he had to. It was necessary that he be behind the stranger, able to see without being seen, because the alternative was horror. If the stranger was not at all times in front of him, he would never know if he was behind him.
He thought of fleeing to Mexico, right now, forgetting everything and only getting away from here, but he just couldn't do it. In Mexico, in Europe, anywhere on earth it would be the same; he was too afraid of the stranger to permit him to stay alive.
But the mistake had already been made. He went back, and Kifka's windows were now dark. The stranger bad gone, of course, no telling where.
Behind him? He kept looking over his shoulder. Tendrils of ice kept creeping inside his coat to touch his spine. The back of his neck ached. His hands wouldn't stay still.
He went back to the rented room, taking a devious route, doubling back time after time, making wick-detours around all pools of darkness. It didn't seem he'd been followed, but there was no way to be sure.
In the room, he arranged glassware on the window sill so it would fall and break if anyone opened the window. He pushed the dresser against the door. Even then, he slept only fitfully, his dreams chaotic, full of scarlets and ebonies, glinting with swords and guns, a-sting with bullets.
Most of the next day he spent in the room, wailing. He dozed sometimes, and stood staring out the window sometimes, and paced the floor sometimes. When, late in the afternoon, he finally understood that what he was waiting for
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