The Seventh Candidate Read Online Free PDF Page A

candidate in the
rear bore, counting left to right, front to back: first thirteen
then seven.
    “Good!” he said heartily, as the door banged
shut behind the last of the ex-applicants. “We require serious,
motivated men.”
    He nodded at his assistant. She fetched a
knapsack from a corner and approached the ladder, prepared to
synchronize her gestures to his words. The knapsack, the director
explained, contained exactly what was visible on his table. The
bottles and jars, however, were smaller, like those on their
tables. The purpose of his large bottles and jars was purely
pedagogical. When he said “White 2”, for example, he would point to
it on his table. The director’s pointer touched the empty jar. It
gave out a crystalline whine.
    “I hope that the candidate in the rear has
good eyesight,” he added waspishly.
    His assistant laughed warmly at this, not
only to get back in the good graces of her employer after what she
had or hadn’t done, but also to take the edge off his implicit
criticism of the thirteenth – now seventh – candidate’s seating
choice. She was good-hearted to a fault. A new worry occurred to
her. Wasn’t her employer’s remark indirectly aimed at her?
Shouldn’t she have asked the candidate to sit up front with the
others?
    At that moment the director turned
whitish-green. He clutched his stomach. His assistant hastily set
down the knapsack. She hurried over and touched his arm. “Sir, is
there something wrong?” she said for the second time that morning.
“Can I help you?”
    Unable to summon breath for speech, he shook
his head fiercely. She remained there for what seemed ages. His
pain seemed aggravated by that close intrusive brown gaze into his
unshielded eyes. Her hand was on his arm. He pulled away. “Let’s
get on with it, for holy Christ’s sake, woman,” the director
managed to articulate between clenched teeth. He waved her back to
her knapsack. The burning slowly subsided.
    It was replaced by distress at his loss of
self-control. Clearly the Cycle was worsening. He’d never insulted
her before. It was the first time he’d ever called her “woman.” She
took things to heart. When it was all over he must remember to make
amends, ask about her cat and her childhood farm. Her face always
lit up at questions like that. She was efficient, unassertive,
eager to please, a respectful listener most of the time and she
lived for the concern. And also basically good, he felt. The
director was very sensitive to manifestations of goodness. He saw
so little of it without and within.
     
    The candidates shifted about restlessly in
their chairs. Still very pale, the director returned to his
introduction. He explained that the knapsack could be worn on the
back of the operator. To make sure they grasped the point, he
signaled to his assistant. She struggled into the straps. He told
them that the aluminum stepladder telescoped into manageable
dimensions and could be easily carried on either shoulder thanks to
the broad canvas strap. He had her illustrate that too. On arriving
at the underground tunnel from the street, he said, the operator
must immediately set it up. The director’s assistant hurriedly
shrugged off the telescoped ladder and developed it. She was
beginning to perspire.
    Her employer explained the necessity of the
stepladder. Graffiti could be scrawled at a height well above the
head but successful effacement required at least eye-level
intervention. He called their attention to the ladder’s tray with
hollows to hold five of the bottles.
    His assistant knelt and extracted five
bottles from the knapsack. She fitted them into the hollows with
slow pedagogical movements. She was still blinking from the blow
but smiled bravely for the candidates.
    Once set up, the director went on, the
ladder was rolled down the underground corridor from poster to
poster as rapidly as possible. Rapidity was essential to cosmetic
intervention. But it must never, never be at the cost