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of vivid colors, on its back the name “Kiri” engraved in small letters. The flowers and the heart were the room’s only life, and already the flowers had the look of coming death. It was something he had noticed always happened in this building, it seemed. There was something in the air of this place.
    The Interrogator’s wife came on the line. “Hallo?”
    Vlora shifted his gaze to the drooping flowers, absorbing the sadness that flowed through the line as he reached out a hand to reposition a violet struggling for breath amid a crush of red poppies. “It is I,” he said wearily.
    “Yes.”
    “And how is my little Kiri?”
    “She is better.”
    “And her temperature?”
    “Fine. It’s just a four-day flu.”
    “Tell her ‘Baba’ sends millions of kisses.”
    “I will.”
    “And hugs, too, Moricani.”
    “That, too.”
    The Interrogator stared at the opposite wall while he waited for the pain to speak again. His wife’s voice had grown even more dead and despondent. I must say something kind, he thought. But what? A sudden gloom washed over the wall and he heard a quick spattering of rain on the windows. He reached for the switch on a gooseneck metal lamp that waspainted khaki and after a click a bright pool of light spilled onto the desk.
    “That will make her very happy,” the wife said damply.
    The words had the sound of a rebuke.
    The Interrogator twisted the head of the lamp so that it shone on the flowers in the glass like a spotlight. “Good,” he said tersely. His guilt was overcome by angry resentment, and he looked on helplessly, surprised, as the comforting words that he had reached for drifted away like shipwreck survivors in a lifeboat, specks at the edge of a chilling sea.
    “I must go,” he said remotely. He could not control it.
    He thought of the artificial rage of the torturers.
    “No, wait!” she said quickly.
    “Yes, what is it? Moricani?”
    She mentioned an errand.
    “Elez, the new grocer in the Square,” she began.
    The Interrogator stared at the papers in the basket. Absorbed in the Prisoner again, he half-listened. “I know that he’s lying,” he dimly heard; “I can tell: when he lies his left shoulder starts twitching.” Vlora struggled to focus on the rush of her words. It was something to do with canned beans.
    “Did you hear what I’m telling you?” she asked him.
    “Beans.”
    “Yes, the fava beans. He says that he’s out, but he’s lying. There are cans in the back. He wants a bribe. If you go there he will give them to you gladly, he’ll be frightened.”
    “No, I can’t, Moricani.”
    “You can’t?”
    “It isn’t right. I cannot use my position for personal advantage.”
    He listened then to silence and the heaviness of nothing.
    He could not cut her off now. She had to let him go.
    “It’s Kiri’s favorite,” she spoke up mournfully. “The fava beans, cold, with lots of olive oil, lemon juice, and garlic: I was hoping I could fix it for tonight.”
    He had lost.
    “I make no promises,” he wearily warned her. “And I’m not about to tell them who I am.”
    “No, of course not.” Suddenly a lilt had come into her voice. “It’s just that dealing with a man he’ll be different. It’s the women who are lied to all the time. That’s how it is.” She knew that everybody recognized her husband and dreaded him, a fact known to every Albanian but him. How naïve he was in so many ways! she believed: locked deep inside the tower of his ardent ideals he was either a truly good man or just a child. Why, he wanted people treated all alike and to be happy! He should have been a monk in a contemplative order, she thought, glumly smoldering while making perfect cheese. “Keep an eye on his shoulder,” she said. “That’s the key.”
    “I’ll remember that, Mooki.” He had used the affectionate nickname that pleased her. His fond tone of voice had cost him an effort. It was worth it: he was free until her next sad look when he would