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says Abahn. “There is the betrayal of Gringo. David gave up the Jew in order to have his dogs. But once he has the dogs, he’ll give up Gringo. He’ll say: Adieu cement, adieu Gringo.”
    Sabana turns toward Abahn, meets his eyes and smiles.
    â€œAt the risk of overanalyzing David, it’s true that in the end you can count on saying adieu to Gringo,” she says. “And then we will find the forest of the Jews?”
    â€œYes,” says Abahn.
    The dogs of the Jew growl, low and soft.
    â€œIt’s Diane, she’s dreaming,” says the Jew.
    Sabana once again remembers the park beyond. She points out at the invisible expanse beyond them in the dark, through the panes of glass in the door. She says:
    â€œYou said don’t be afraid. But of what?”
    â€œOf happiness,” says the Jew.
    â€œOf hunger,” says Abahn.
    David opens his eyes. The dogs are still growling. His eyes linger open.
    â€œThe word woke him up,” says Abahn.
    â€œDogs,” says Sabana.
    â€œHunger,” says the Jew.
    The dogs fall silent. They wait. The eyes of David flutter half-open, then suddenly close again. His breath evens out.
    She gestures at him, says:
    â€œAnd for this, you prefer hunger?”
    â€œHe prefers nothing, he prefers hunger.”
    â€œIt’s for that that they kill him.”
    â€œYes.”
    Sabana gestures at David without looking at him. “For that, I prefer death.”
    â€œNo,” says the Jew.
    They stand apart from one another. Each one alone. Each one looking at David, who is sleeping in the light.
    â€œWhen they sleep,” says Abahn.
    Sabana looks away from David. She turns back to the darkened park.
    â€œHe is young still?” asks Abahn.
    â€œYes, young,” says the Jew.
    â€œWhen he isn’t sleeping, he is a killer-ape,” says Abahn.
    â€œA stonemason,” says the Jew. “A member of the Party.”
    â€œWhen he is sleeping, who is he?” asks Abahn.
    Sabana is silent.
    â€œThe child of Sabana,” says the Jew.
    She is still there, in front of the door to the park, silent, staring out into the darkness.
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    S taadt is the entire darkened park.
    The dogs of the Jew howl.
    David’s hand lifts gently as if pushing away the howls.
    They are standing apart from David, their bodies separate.
    â€œYou went to start work,” says Sabana. “You came back, you wrote. They saw you writing behind the windows of your house.”
    The dogs no longer howl. David has fallen again into sleep.
    â€œI wasn’t writing,” says the Jew.
    â€œIn the night, at the table, everyone could see you. You wrote on blank paper.”
    She turns toward Abahn.
    â€œEvery night he walked back and forth in this house. He wrote. In the morning, he slept.”
    â€œI wrote what people said,” says the Jew. “People said nothing.”
    Their voices are even, they sound the same.
    â€œYou wanted to write only what people said,” says Sabana.
    â€œNo,” says the Jew. “Not anymore.”
    â€œAnd what did people say?”
    â€œTogether or alone, they said the same thing.”
    â€œBut even so upon returning here you wrote it down.”
    The Jew doesn’t answer.
    They are silent. From all sides, the constant dull pressure of the dark park. The Jew looks out at it through the windows. Sabana seems like she is waiting for something.
    â€œYes,” says the Jew. “I wrote it.”
    They are silent once more.
    â€œGringo said he comes a little before sunrise?” asks the Jew.
    â€œI don’t know,” says Sabana.
    Silence. There is some subtle change in their voices.
    â€œDid you think they would say something?” Abahn asks.
    â€œI thought nothing like that,” says the Jew.
    â€œBefore coming to Staadt?” asks Sabana.
    â€œI was told there was no point in trying. But I never tried to write what people said.”
    The Jew points