pretended to be. His voice would take on a wavering quality that made Jory think of a signal on a shortwave radio coming from an enormous distance, at times barely audible, then all at once strikingly clear. âYou and I,â heâd declare, âwe arenât all that different.â This pronouncement would be accompanied by a halting motion of the hands, his head moving in unison, as if he were conducting a complex and mournful piece of music, perhaps for the first time. âNeither of us really believes in anything,â heâd insist. âYouâre just trying to convince yourself otherwise.â Heâd fall silent for a time, his head lowered so that Jory might hope the liquor had got to him at last; and then, without looking up, heâd say, âYou can make a vocation out of your exile.â
But usually Fotor was less dramatic. More likely heâd be urging Jory to action. The man was constantly on the make, bartering for clothes, a car, language lessons, he watched TV attentively, quickly learning the local expressions. âWe have to move on,â heâd say. âThe clock doesnât stop. You too, Jory, you should prepare for a career here, or somewhere. It can be done. We donât have to work at these kinds of jobs all the time. These are jobs for animals.â Jory could only shake his head. Of course, he knew all that. Still, there was another side to the question. Once we start to make those kinds of accommodations to our circumstances, he tried to tell Fotor, we start to surrender. Didnât he know that to the people who passed them in the street they were shadows that could disappear the moment a cloud covered the sun? You couldnât accept that; only if you refused to see yourself as a shadow was it possible to go on. All of them from the homelandâhe, Fotor, the rest of themâwere part of a continuing story, a story that had to be remembered, kept alive.
Fotor would smile his bisonâs smile. âOf course,â heâd say, âof course,â his eyes directed elsewhere, as if he were calculating sums, which may very well have been what he was doing. In the end Fotor, with all his contacts, had managed to find the perfect place for himself, a warm green island where he was going to be in charge of a concession. âThe government is very corrupt there,â he said gleefully as he made plans for his departure. âThere are unlimited opportunities. From one store Iâll soon have two, then many. All you have to do is write me when Iâm there and Iâll see to it that they let you in.â
Here in the truck, Jory can imagine Fotorâs island, the little store with a roof of thatch where he sells souvenirs and cold drinks, the back office where he works out more important deals of one sort or another in places hundreds of miles away. Outside, the fierce heat is broken occasionally by pounding rains. Thereâs blue water, miles of untracked yellow sand, a rudimentary sun, as simple as a childâs drawing. The place Jory conjures up is starkly empty and yet for a few seconds, listening to the truckâs steady drone, he lets himself contemplate the prospect of living on that island.
He can imagine himself there with Fotor, the two of them facing each other across a rattan table, cool drinks beside them. Would Jory finally ask him the question he hadnât been able to bring himself to ask in the last place they were together: âWhat happened to that man I knocked down? Did I kill him?â Palm fronds would hiss, Fotor would stare back unblinking. âI mean,â Jory would pursue quietly, trying to make it seem like some unimportant matter he wanted to clear up, âIâd just like to know.â Meaning Am I completely in your power or do you even know yourself whether I killed that man? âReally,â Jory would press, his voice rising just a little, âIâm curious, thatâs