the homeland on a map. Itâs no surprise that he strikes out at someone he doesnât understand. Would he be more hospitable if Jory learned to prattle about basketball with him? Blessedly, the engine starts up. When the truck pulls away, rakes and shovels clatter, an earthy smell rises from the bushes bound with twine, their roots encased in burlap. As the engine shudders into gear, vibrations pass into Joryâs back through the cool metal; the ride settles into an even pace. He watches the landscape move by, absently running his finger across the hard, pointed tines of a rake, his earlier feelings already subsiding. Itâs taken only a few moments of the truckâs steady, jittering progress to calm him, to allow him to think more clearly.
Because, heâs beginning to realize, it isnât really Carl heâs upset about. Carl is stupid and narrow-minded but he isnât worth the trouble, he isnât the problem. Jory glances toward the cab: this time the sight of the man brings no reaction. Still, there is something thatâs bothering him: itâs that message from Fotor that Jory canât put behind him. Reaching out like that, all the way from his island, Fotor is the demon at the bottom of the lake who teasingly brushes the swimmerâs leg. Jory doesnât want to follow that thought, though. He lets his mind go blank for a few moments before he catches a glimpse of the universityâs arboretum, a green rectangle bounded by a low stone wall. He walked through it not long agoâit might have been that day after he got Fotorâs message, when he was so upset. And still, he remembers, he told himself this town was going to be his last place of exile. He smiles at the memory. He was hopeful then; heâs determined to be hopeful once more. Whatâs happening now has nothing to do with either Carl or Fotor. Itâs his life, after all.
The truck climbs a hill, stone dormitories slide by. His earlier discomfort is only a faint, bitter aftertaste; out here in the sunshine itâs easy to feel better about things. Yes, he assures himself, I can still make choices, Iâm not trapped. Really, thereâs no reason to be upset by Fotor, whoâs an amusing man in his own detached way. It would be just like him to send that emissary of his as a kind of joke. And from Fotorâs point of view, giving him that phone number might be considered a thoughtful gesture. In case of emergency, the man who gave him the number said. As Fotor and Jory have good reason to know, emergencies can never be discounted. No, he shouldnât be upset by his countrymanâs action, he ought to be grateful. It must mean something, after all, that he didnât tear up the paper with the phone number but has kept it all this while.
Once more he remembers the face of his fellow exile, the little smile that always played about the corners of his mouth. There were times when Jory was convinced the man had the moral vision of a lizard but he was pleasant company, and he had a brain. In that country to the north Fotor took an interest in Jory; he was always trying to make a convert of him. Chameleon that he was, he found his countrymanâs dedication to the homeland droll. âYou canât really believe that a sane man would agree to hold his breath until those thugs who are running things there are finally sent packing,â heâd say. Then heâd gesture with the bottle and refill Joryâs glass. âOh, theyâll be gone eventually but as the nuns used to say about the end of the world, only God knows when it will happen.â Heâd laugh to himself. âIâve heard people say that God has a sense of humor. That may be, but Iâve never been able to understand his sense of timing.â Fotorâs little performances would go through several stages, the least welcome for Jory being the one near the end when the man was quite far into his cups, or