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Whitfield.
    Quinn did not think of his trip, because to him there had been no trip. There had been the box. He thought of the box and had no idea if it counted or not. Altogether, his recollection was vague, or perhaps of no interest, the way a meal eaten, a cigarette smoked, an argument finished, an arrival completed, of no interest any more.
    When the drinks came there were only two—one for Quinn and the other for Whitfield. The woman, Beatrice, still had her own, and Remal was no longer at the table. And then Whitfield took a long gulp from his gin, which was cloudy with lemon juice, got up and said that he would be right back.
    “Are you staring, sleeping, or thinking?” said the woman to Quinn.
    “Uh, I’m sorry. None of those things,” and Quinn picked up his drink.
    “But you were looking at me.”
    “Oh yes. I was looking. Just that.”
    She did not entirely understand that, but it was all Quinn had been doing. He saw that she was probably European: she had honey-colored hair, and she wore something short-sleeved and white, a cold white next to her skin which looked warm with tan. He looked down the row of little blue buttons on her front—how they ran down her round curve in front, tucked out of sight under her breasts, went straight down to her belt where the buttons ended.
    “I feel touched,” she said.
    He did not know why and had nothing to answer.
    “I meant by your look. By your looking just now.”
    “Oh. I wasn’t thinking anything.”
    “I know you weren’t.”
    She sipped her drink and looked beyond him. Quinn could see her neck, a nice round neck which showed a soft beat, a soft shadow which came and went to one side where her dress collar started. Then she sighed and looked back at him and smiled. Suddenly she seems very slow, thought Quinn. Like a cat in the sun.
    “Mister Quinn,” she said, “are you always speechless like this?”
    “I’m not speechless. I can talk.”
    “Then talk to me a little.”
    “Are you with this Turk?”
    “With what? You mean Rental? He’s not a Turk,” and she had to laugh.
    “Are you with him?”
    She smiled and looked at him, as if she did not mind being asked such a question, or answering it, though she did not answer it.
    “I meant something else when I asked you to talk. I wanted to hear about you.”
    “You know about me.”
    “Do you mind talking about it? I’m very curious, I’m really curious about you inside that box.”
    “I don’t mind talking about it but I don’t know what to say.”
    He meant that, she thought, and picked up her glass to take a slow sip. Quinn said nothing else. He looked out of the window where he could see a small slice of sea between the walls of two houses. This is just about like starting up from the bottom, he thought. When nothing happens it doesn’t matter, but sitting here it isn’t so easy. He felt annoyed and suddenly the light outside the window hurt his eyes. He thought that was the reason why he was annoyed. He looked briefly at the arch behind his back and then humped over the table and looked at his hands.
    “They’ll be right back,” she said.
    “Oh.” And then he said, “I asked you about you and—what’s his name?”
    “Remal, the Turk.”
    “I asked you about you and Remal before but I didn’t mean do you go to bed with him.”
    “Oh? Why not?”
    Then he knew why he felt annoyed. The two men’s sudden departure felt like something secret. Something I can’t deal with, he felt, something shut instead of open. And this was his first moment, since waking up in Okar, that he thought there must be some habits, old and dim right now, something to make all this newness less hard.
    She saw that he had changed just a little, that he said just a little bit less than he thought.
    “What I really wanted to know, I wanted to know why you’re sitting here at this table.”
    “I wanted to see you.”
    “I’m no zoo.”
    “And I brought my car. You’re going to use it going to