The street was now bathed in yellow light, and the smell of decay drifted in from the harbor. He stumbled over the iron bars again. He caught himself and realized now that he was drunk. The realization made him feel sorry for himself, and for the first time in days he thought of Lauren, now with tearful affection. He hadn’t heard anything from her since the movie, and he hadn’t dared contact her. At first he had tried to tell himself that it wouldn’t bother him one bit if he never heard from Lauren again. But all the time he was waiting for her call. He even, in case she wrote him—he saw her addressing a few earnest and forbearing lines to him, apologizing for her caustic remarks and at the same time politely questioning his understanding of politics—he even checked the mailbox several times a day, reaching his hand in to make sure no letters had gotten stuck. The reach had become a habit, a familiar pain. He stuck his hand into the mailbox and pulled it out empty every time, or at most with a handful of bills. Even his walk to the FBI office was a secret way of visiting Lauren: he did things that she would approve of if she knew who he really was. But instead of turning himself in, he was now going about trying to prepare his escape.

He walked north on Columbia Street, saw offices with greasy windows, saw a sign that read JABLINSKI, ATTORNEY AT LAW. Suddenly he was convinced that this was the name that Arthur had told him. He stepped into a dark rear courtyard, walked up an iron spiral staircase to the rear building, illuminated only by the dim glow of a bare lightbulb. Behind the doors the sound of footsteps and children coughing, the smell of burnt milk pudding. The door upstairs opened very quickly, as if he was on the right track. A heavyset man, his suspenders off and hanging from his waist, seated in front of an overstuffed filing cabinet, asked what he could do for him. It was as if he were in a dream and, realizing that he was dreaming, suddenly couldn’t speak. He ran into the tough, rubberlike walls of his dream cocoon, and even though he was awake he couldn’t find his way out.

“Can’t you talk?”

“I was sent here,” he said very slowly, “though it could also be a mistake.”

“You’ll have to tell me what you want!”

Was that a sign? “I heard you help people.”

“I’m a lawyer,” the man snapped. “That’s my job.”

“Do you also help people out with papers?” Josef asked.

“Get lost.” The man closed the door.

“Where do I have to go? Tell me!” But his voice was drowned out by music coming suddenly from a radio.