In short order, Mobright pushed an elegant cart into the cabin.
“Bravo,” Beckett said.
“Yes sir,” Mobright answered deferentially. “May I ask whether you’ve made any progress?”
“You may, but you won’t get an answer yet. Be a good chap and close the door behind you.”
Neither Beckett nor I made a move for the cart, although the aroma of Mexican food emanated from the table. The image of Beckett in a sombrero entered my mind, providing me with a temporary respite from the burden of thought. I pictured him and Mobright strumming guitars and singing “Guantanamera.”
Beckett pointed at Truth Two on the computer screen. “Since you choose to be silent,” he said, “be a good man and break this one here and straighten it out for me.”
I did as he requested, then got up to check out the trays on the cart. One plate of tamales with refried beans and saffron rice. The other, filet mignon. Beckett looked up from his work.
“Which one do you want?” I asked, hoping he’d pick the steak.
“One moment, one moment,” he cautioned, holding the notepad six inches in front of his face, fingers gripping the tip of his pen. After a few seconds he mumbled, “Mobright cooked the tamales for you.”
“He did? Mobright?”
“Yes. At my instruction. Vegetable. Your favorite.”
“How do you know they’re my favorite?” I asked, carrying my plate back to my seat.
“Please . . .” he said, annoyed.
“Mobright, a chef?” I muttered to myself.
“No one is merely who he seems to be,” Beckett said. “No one. There, I’ve got it!
“ The lion I God and offer the languid future man share people the secret my the bearded heart man will and never know soul.
“Equally cryptic,” Beckett said. “Just as I’d suspected.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered. “Languid future man.”
“Yes, quite.”
My companion poured himself a glass of water from a silver pitcher, pulled out his pill organizer, and swallowed some capsules. He chased them with a sip and picked up his meal.
I watched him carefully tuck a corner of the white linen napkin into his collar, then slice off a small piece of the meat. He put his knife down, placed his free hand in his lap, and chewed inconspicuously, as though he’d gone to finishing school with the Queen. He pushed his plate aside, apparently through with his meal.
I cut off half a tamale with my fork and stuffed it in my mouth so my cheeks puffed out. Beckett eyed me.
I studied the garbled messages on his notepad.
“Listen to both of them,” I instructed.
“Please finish chewing first,” Beckett said.
I swallowed and read the two lines aloud. Then I inhaled the second half of my first tamale. The son of a bitch Mobright could cook.
“You know what I think?” I said, looking at Truth Two.
“Mm?”
“I think there is no such thing as a bearded heart man, that’s what I think.”
“Good point.”
“Uh-huh. So we’ll take that ‘heart’ out of there.”
He thought about that. “All right then. We’ll do that.”
“You know what else? ‘Share people the secret’?”
“Yes?”
“Take ‘people’ out and you’ve got ‘share the secret,’ ” I said. “What do you think of that?”
Beckett regarded the notepad with growing enthusiasm. “You’re really quite amazing.”
His flattery didn’t touch me. What I felt was gratitude for having gotten as far as I had, and determination to push on further.
“I’m going to finish this tamale,” I said, “and use the facilities while you type these sentences. Then we’re going to start tugging words till we find out what is exactly what with the Circles of Truth. How much time before we touch down? Eleven, twelve hours?”
Beckett checked his Oyster Rolex. “About that.”
I shoveled the last chunk into my face. “Well,” I said, standing up, “start typing.”
When I returned, Mobright was in the room staring over Beckett’s shoulder with a pad and pen.
“No one is who they seem to be,” I told him.
Mobright looked taken aback.
