Yes, sir. Exactly, sir. That's why I'm here. I'm paying you the visit now.
Mr. Blank casts his eyes about the room, looking for a chair so he can offer Flood a place to sit, but apparently the only chair in the room is the one he now occupies himself.
Something wrong? Flood asks.
No, no, Mr. Blank replies. I'm just looking for another chair, that's all.
I can always sit on the bed, Flood answers, gesturing to the bed. Or, if you're feeling up to it, we could go to the park across the way. No shortage of benches there.
Mr. Blank points down at his right foot and says: I'm missing a shoe. I can't go outside with only one shoe.
Flood turns around and immediately spots the white tennis shoe on the floor below the window. There's the other one, sir. We could get it back on you in two shakes of a cat.
A cat? What are you talking about?
Just an expression, Mr. Blank. No harm intended. Flood pauses for a moment, looks back at the shoe on the floor, and then says: Well, what about it? Should we put it on or not?
Mr. Blank lets out a long, weary sigh. No, he says, with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, I don't want to put it on. I'm sick of these goddamned shoes. If anything, I'd rather take the other one off, too.
The moment these words escape his mouth, Mr. Blank is heartened to realize that such an act falls within the realm of possibility, that in this one trifling instance he can take matters into his own hands. Without a moment's hesitation, he therefore bends down and removes the sneaker from his left foot.
Ah, that's better, he says, lifting his legs and wiggling his toes in the air. Much better. And I'm still dressed all in white, aren't I?
Of course you are, Flood says. What's so important about that?
Never mind, says Mr. Blank, waving off Flood's question as of no account. Just sit down on the bed and tell me what you want, Mr. Flood.
The former inspector from Scotland Yard lowers himself onto the foot of the mattress, positioning his body in the left-hand quadrant in order to align his face with the face of the old man, who is sitting in the chair with his back to the desk, roughly six feet away. Flood clears his throat, as if searching for the appropriate words to start with, and then, in a low voice trembling with anxiety, he says: It's about the dream, sir.
The dream? Mr. Blank asks, confounded by Flood's statement. What dream?
My dream, Mr. Blank. The one you mentioned in your report on Fanshawe.
Who's Fanshawe?
You don't remember?
No, Mr. Blank declares in a loud, irritable voice. No, I don't remember Fanshawe. I can hardly remember anything.
They're pumping me full of pills, and nearly everything is gone now. Most of the time, I don't even know who I am. And if I can't remember myself, how do you expect me to remember this… this…
Fanshawe.
Fanshawe… And who, pray tell, is he?
One of your operatives, sir.
You mean someone I sent out on a mission?
An extremely perilous mission.
Did he survive?
No one is sure. But the prevailing opinion is that he's no longer with us.
Groaning softly to himself, Mr. Blank covers his face with his hands and whispers: Another one of the damned.
Excuse me, Flood interjects, I didn't catch what you said.