Whatever his religion or race or political allegiance, on one level he perceives that he is singularly objectionable, and as he wanders the streets of the unnamed city, skirting the unnamed river, hiding the unnamed word on his chest with his briefcase, he radiates a sense of such bewildered hurt that we have no choice but to share it. Paradoxically, therefore, this tale of nonspecifics becomes devastatingly specific. Ruzena,'' I said, ''at this moment people are sitting down to well-set tables. There are flowers in vases. Plates clink, and steam rises from soup bowls.
People begin to eat.
Ruzena could not answer. She was not in the room, she was not with me at all. I didn't know what had happened to her. I hadn't seen her for a long time. Perhaps she was not on earth anymore, perhaps she had never even lived.