I entered the bedroom and found three people standing there, waiting for me. The first was Mr. Joe. I recognized him by his short stature and the black leather cap that covered his bald head. He looked like a cartoon character, with his small feet, his shining black shoes, and his smooth, thin mustache set above sharp, cruel lips. How could so much force and so much cruelty, with all the dread and terror it inspired, be concentrated within a small man like this, who didn’t at all look the part? Perhaps because power is not a muscle, just a strong persuasive authority, nothing more. You see yourself as powerful and capable, and others automatically adopt your view of yourself. Just let those two goons step away from Mr. Joe, and he would discover he was not brave enough to face me for a minute. He couldn’t stand up to a beating from me for a second. He would collapse before me, no question, because my power lies in my frightening capacity for endurance and suffering. I have been loaded up with deprivation as a burden I have borne. I have been weighed down with hatred, cruelty, isolation, and death, and I have taken it all. I exceed the Messiah Himself in my ability to endure cruelty and humiliation. What is the cross compared to what I have suffered? Beatings are nothing, believe me, because the most violent pain exists on another plane.

Mr. Joe came over to me with his eyes lowered. He stood close, examining his fingers as he turned his hands over. Then he drew from his pocket a bracelet with small, pointy studs, through which he inserted his four fingers before curling his hand into a fist. Before I could react at all, the two goons grabbed my arms in order to hold me in place. Mr. Joe remained calm and made a sign to one of them, who left the room while the other stayed behind to hold me. “Where is Shaygha?” I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of doing anything that might provoke them, so I kept quiet. He wasn’t going to hurt her, that was for sure. They would lecture her a bit to teach her a lesson, and then they would send her back to her work. The bastard wouldn’t harm the goose that lays the golden egg, even if he would punish me in front of her in order to scare her enough to stay away from me, and for me to keep away from her. Was he thinking of killing me? No. No, I didn’t think so.