“After a while, though, it got to hurting too much even to think about food, or anything else—any kind of pleasure. You woke up in the morning, if you slept at all, and you just made it through the day without thinking about anything. Until one day, the war ended and we were free.”

“Just one day after another, right? That’s how you did it.”

“Yep. No past and no future.”

“Then how did you find the will to live?”

“It’s just there, Ruth. Life wants to live. Why does a rabbit run from a fox? Why does an amoeba—I don’t know, whatever an amoeba does to live, as long as it can? Because the point of life is to live.”

“Isn’t that a circular argument?”

“Isn’t everything circular? The earth spins on its axis, right? Revolves around the sun. Sun revolves around the Milky Way, that’s what the astronomers say. Doesn’t mean we’re not getting somewhere, without even realizing. Then one day you wake up and realize everything’s changed.”

“What did you do after the war?”

“Well, first I came home and found my wife was about to have a baby with a friend of mine.”

“Some friend.”

“Then I went back to work.”

“Why? After what you went through.”

“A lot of reasons. First, because I was a bachelor again, nobody to depend on me. But mostly—I don’t know, maybe it’s me—the case takes hold of you, sometimes. It’s all you can think about. You live and breathe and eat and drink it. You’re in love with it. That’s what gets you through the long hours, combing through transcripts and telegrams and passenger lists. You never know where you’re going to find that missing piece of the puzzle.”

“Or find yourself sitting in a Soviet hospital, waiting for a baby to be born.”

He laughs and stretches. “I’ll go try to telephone Digby again. Don’t go anywhere, will you?”

I spread my hands. “Where would I go?”

IT’S FUNNY, THOUGH, HOW Kedrov disappeared. He was so attentive before. I stand and walk around the waiting room, just to stretch my legs, and look over the other people waiting. They glance back and avert their eyes. An elderly man, well dressed; a mother and child; a single, attractive woman, sort of sumptuous looking, whom I imagine to be somebody’s mistress, because that’s so much more interesting than the probable reality. Fox still hasn’t returned. He must be talking to Digby. I glance at the clock—nearly half past nine—and return to my seat.