“Can we talk now?” he asked,
“Sure.”
And he began to eat the soup with unexpected speed, without chewing, swallowing and frowning. He plucked the starch napkin from off his lap, raised it to his face and began to rub. I felt a cheerful power. Tomorrow, perhaps, I would be destroyed, but today my knee was pressing on this bald patch. How was he. He was lower, lower, lower in the magic pyramid of power. And the sweater I was wearing was not torn, to sit in at home and cough, it was a sacred garment, imbued with smoke and the muttering of priests. Hearing the stifled voice opposite me with half an ear, I fathomed the music of secrets. The secrets roared in my head and shook. And the voice said into my ear:
“It’s time to share the posts. You’ve got a good chance at being a vice speaker. I’d
