Just before midnight, he saw someone coming toward the restaurant who attracted his attention like an electric shock. It was a tall, muscular, dark young man, wearing gray trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt and carrying a red rose between the fingers of his left hand. He came up close to the restaurant with a strong, graceful stride. There was a bold, piercing look in his eyes and they exchanged glances as he entered the place. He stared at Isa intently, and Isa realized that he recognized him. Then with something akin to a smile the man averted his face with its elongated features, and went to the fruit juice corner.

It was he and no one else. From the war days. One night, he had arrested this young man, and until dawn he had attended the inquest himself in his official and party capacity. The young man had been bold and stubborn, and the inquest had not found him guilty. He had been sent to prison anyway and had stayed there till the ministry had resigned. What could he be doing now? Had he secured a senior position in the new regime? Or was he still a revolutionary? Why had he smiled? It was quite clear that he remembered him; should he expect some sudden act of violence? He decided to put the man out of his mind, but some irresistible impulse made him turn toward the fruit juice corner. He saw the man standing there facing toward the inside of the place; he was holding a glass of mango juice in his right hand and looking inquisitively in his direction. His eyes seemed to smile sarcastically. Isa looked outside again; he felt utterly depressed. It was as though, with that look, the past were pursuing him.