SLEEP NO MORE
249
I have been told that the right hand of Intelligence often does not
know what the left hand
is
doing, and that the relation between the
two
is
not all it should be. But why, then, did the left hand of Intel–
ligence pick on me?
The only reasonable explanation I could think of was that I was
just a cog
in
the machine of justice, and, like thousands of other cogs,
my usefulness could be determined only
in
the course of investigation.
This explanation had a certain attractiveness, I must admit, for it
made everything I could not understand appear at least to be con–
sistent. Still, the idea of my being a cog failed to satisfy me, since it
reduced my importance without actually making clear what my role
was. Besides, when you get right down to it, what is a cog? On in–
vestigation a cog turns out to be a writer, or a doctor, or a politician,
with a history and a face, about whom people speculate and gossip. He
is the eternal stranger who exists partly in his own right and partly
as an image in the eyes of the world.
Suppose my visitor had rung Miss Caruso's bell and questioned
her about me-a preposterous idea, of course, but the very thought
of it made me uneasy. No doubt, she would have described me as a
writer with strange habits, such as sleeping in the afternoon, prowling
around at night, and going out at frequent intervals, ostensibly to get
a newspaper-and why anyone, least of all a writer, should read or
even buy ten papers a day, she would have no idea. She would cer–
tainly have told him that I seemed to have a divided personality, for
sometimes I would dress quite carelessly, almost like a bohemian,
while at other times my clothes would be suspiciously respectable.
As
for my politics, the rumor
is
that I was once a radical, and, with a
touch of malice, she would add that no one had been able to figure
out just what my beliefs were now, though she had observed-not
that it means anything- many foreigners coming to see me. Then,
too, there would have been a few innuendos about my character,
which I cannot even imagine, though I suppose she must have noticed
that I love arguments, especially when they lead nowhere, hate jokes
and long-winded stories, and that I become nervous when I find my–
self in agreement with more than three people. Nor could she have
failed to observe that pretentious women make me uncomfortable.
For all I know, Miss Caruso may have thought me arrogant, or bor–
ing,
or anti-feminist.
