I felt like a man swimming deep in the ocean, trying to read a sign being held above the surface. The man was clearly speaking to me, but nothing he was saying was making any sense. The address on file. The image of the open house sign, sitting like a white bird on the lawn, flitted through my mind’s eye. Laboriously, I thought it through. Nothing would be gained by having the bag sent there.

“No, thank you,” I said, finding my voice at last. “I can come pick it up myself.”

“That is excellent news,” said the young man, and his tone suggested he really was pleased by it. “When can we expect you?”

I eyed the little clock on my shelf—it was now ten minutes to one. I could be there in twenty-five minutes, if I didn’t dawdle. I was just about to propose this time to the voice on the telephone when it occurred to me that perhaps there was something undignified about dropping everything and rushing over right away. The Swedish policeman, for example, would not have done so; I was sure of it. If he was no Stepin Fetchit, then neither would I be.

“Five,” I said, “around then.”

“Excellent,” said the voice on the other end. “We’ll have it waiting for you.”

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting it was a quarter to five, and I gathered up my things and prepared to leave. All afternoon my thoughts had been circling around the phone call and the mysterious piece of luggage I was about to claim, circling and circling like water circles a drain. As I passed the mailboxes in the hallway I stuck my hand out and patted the inside of mine. The gesture was pure habit, and I’d already gotten the mail that day, so I was startled when my fingers brushed up against something. I stopped. What was it?

It was a single sheet of paper, a flyer advertising an upcoming lecture. I would not have given it a second thought were it not for the bizarre title, which read, in block letters, AMERICAN HOLOCAUST. The speaker was being hosted by the history department, read the information below, as part of an ongoing lecture series, and here was a grainy photo of the speaker himself, a strong-featured older man with white hair, wearing a dark V-neck sweater. For a moment I had a flicker of recognition—I’ve seen this man before! But the feeling just as quickly dissipated. Not everything is connected, I thought, weary of myself. He was merely like countless academics before him: pale and besweatered. His name looked vaguely French.

Well, that was just ridiculous, I thought, crumpling the flyer up into a ball and dropping it in the wastepaper basket. This was a university, not a tabloid newspaper. American Holocaust indeed, I thought, shaking my head; everyone knew that such a thing did not exist.

19