“I’m not a
We left by a side door and elbowed our way through the crowd in the street. A flight of narrow and dirty steps descending from the sidewalk led us to a cellar tavern that had all the atmosphere of a private club. There was a bar with a picture (now much dimmed by dirt and smoke) of the cast of a play I did not recognize behind it, three tables, and a few alcoves. Kreton and I slipped into one of these and ordered from a barman with a misshapen head. I suppose I must have stared at him, because Kreton said, “I sprained my ankle stepping out of a saucer, and now I am a convalescent soldier. Should we make up something for him too? Can’t we just say the potter is angry sometimes?”
“The potter?” I asked.
“‘None answered this; but after Silence spake / A Vessel of a more ungainly Make: / They sneer at me for leaning all awry; / What! Did the Hand then of the Potter shake?’”
I shook my head. “I’ve never heard that, but you’re right; he looks as though his head had been shaped in clay, then knocked in on one side while it was still wet.”
“This is a republic of hideousness as you have no doubt already seen. Our national symbol is supposed to be an extinct eagle; it is in fact the nightmare.”
“I find it a very beautiful country,” I said. “Though I confess that many of your people are unsightly. Still there are the ruins, and you have such skies as we never see at home.”
“Our chimneys have been filled with wind for a long time.”
“That may be for the best. Blue skies are better than most of the things made in factories.”
“And not all our people are unsightly,” Kreton murmured.
“Oh, no. Mlle Dahl—”
“I had myself in mind.”
I saw that he was baiting me, but I said, “No, you aren’t hideous—in fact, I would call you handsome in an exotic way. Unfortunately, my tastes run more toward Mlle Dahl.”
“Call her Ardis—she won’t mind.”
The barman brought Kreton a glass of green liqueur, and me a cup of the weak, bitter American coffee.
“You were going to tell me who she is entertaining.”
“Behind the scenes.” Kreton smiled. “I just thought of that—I’ve used the phrase a thousand times, as I suppose everyone has. This time it happens to be literally correct, and its birth is suddenly made plain, like Oedipus’s. No, I don’t think I promised I would tell you that—though I suppose I said I might. Aren’t there other things you would really rather know? The secret hidden beneath Mount Rushmore, or how you might meet her yourself?”
“I will give you twenty rials to introduce me to her, with some assurance that something will come of the introduction. No one need ever find out.”
Kreton laughed. “Believe me, I would be more likely to boast of my profit than keep it secret—though I would probably have to divide my fee with the lady to fulfill the guarantee.”
“You’ll do it then?”
He shook his head, still laughing. “I only pretend to be corrupt; it goes with this face. Come backstage after the show tonight and I’ll see that you meet Ardis. You’re very wealthy, I presume, and if you’re not, we’ll say you are anyway. What are you doing here?”
“Studying your art and architecture.”
“Great reputation in your own country, no doubt?”
“I am a pupil of Akhon Mirza Ahmak; he has a great reputation, surely. He even came here, thirty years ago, to examine the miniatures in your National Gallery of Art.”
“Pupil of Akhon Mirza Ahmak, pupil of Akhon Mirza Ahmak,” Kreton muttered to himself. “That is very good—I must remember it. But now”—he glanced at the old clock behind the bar—“it’s time we got back. I’ll have to freshen my makeup before I go on in the last act. Would you prefer to wait in the theater, or just come around to the stage door when the play’s over? I’ll give you a card that will get you in.”
“I’ll wait in the theater,” I said, feeling that would offer less chance for mishap, also because I wanted to see Ellen play the ghost again.
“Come along then—I have a key for that side door.”
I rose to go with him, and he threw an arm about my shoulder that I felt it would be impolite to thrust away. I could feel his hand, as cold as a dead man’s, through my clothing, and was reminded unpleasantly of the twisted hands of the beggar in the Silent City.
We were going up the narrow stairs when I felt a gentle touch inside my jacket. My first thought was that he had seen the outline of my pistol and meant to take it and shoot me. I gripped his wrist and shouted something—I do not remember what. Bound together and struggling, we staggered up the steps and into the street.
In a few seconds we were the center of a mob—some taking his side, some mine, most only urging us to fight, or asking each other what the disturbance was. My pocket sketch pad, which he must have thought held money, fell to the ground between us. Just then the American police arrived—not by air as the police would have come at home, but astride shaggy, hulking horses, and swinging whips. The crowd scattered at the first crackling arc from the lashes, and in a few seconds they had beaten Kreton to the ground. Even at the time I could not help thinking what a terrible thing it must be to be one of these people, whose police are so quick to prefer any prosperous- looking foreigner to one of their own citizens.
They asked me what had happened (my questioner even dismounted to show his respect for me), and I explained that Kreton had tried to rob me, but that I did not want him punished. The truth was that seeing him sprawled unconscious with a burn across his face had put an end to any resentment I might have felt toward him;
