Was the iron bar soaked with blood? Was the roof deserted? What time was it? He crossed the roof. Why didn’t he wash the bar in the bathroom? Should he throw it from the roof of the building? That would be idiotic. He heard voices on the stairs. He looked over the banister. The third floor was dark, but the light shone on the second floor. He wiped the bar with his left glove, then slowly went down the stairs. He came to the second floor. The light was shining from an open apartment. Three men came out and followed him down the stairs. He slowed down until they passed him. He came to the ground floor and left the building with the three men as though he were one of them. He noticed the doorman of the building sitting in his small room by the entrance. Outside he took a deep breath. Did anyone recognize him? Were his clothes bloody? He saw a taxi on the other side of the street. But he dared not cross. Someone might see him from the hotel. He turned away from the building and crossed the street, and then doubled back toward the taxi. The beggar was through for the day. He was getting up and moving toward him. He waited a few paces away from the taxi.

The beggar passed him. For the first time he got a good look at him. How repulsive. A thin, sallow face, a crooked nose, and red, bloodshot eyes. A dirty bedraggled beard and a head covered by a black patchy skullcap. What did this man have to sing about? And yet he sang all day. The beggar passed him with the expected stench that went with his appearance. He rushed toward the taxi and asked the driver to take him to the Nile, at the place where some boats were moored. Had anyone seen him leave the building? Did anyone notice the glove and the bar? Why was the taxi moving so slowly? The driver was annoying him with meaningless chatter.

“Isn’t that right?”

“Huh…”

“I mean, instead of this madness, I tell myself, patience is a virtue.” Why doesn’t this idiot shut up? What is he saying anyhow? The banks of the Nile were plunged in darkness. No one would see the glove, the bar, the blood. Rowing at such an hour must surely be strange. But not strange when compared with other things.

Now you can get rid of the glove and the bar. Wash your hands carefully in the muddy Nile waters. He suddenly felt exhausted. He let the boat drift with the current. Nothing on shore was worthwhile. How pleasant it was just to drift with the tide. The eyes and their look, the cry; these could never be forgotten. The beggar’s eyes, did they issue forth tears or blood? Nothing mattered now, not even the search for his supposed father. But where are you drifting?