On seeing me, the Arab raised himself a little, and his hand went to his pocket.
Naturally, I gripped Raymond’s revolver in the pocket of my coat.
Then the Arab let himself sink back again, but without taking his hand from his pocket.
I was some distance off, at least ten yards, and most of the time I saw him as a blurred dark form wobbling in the heat haze.
Sometimes, however, I had glimpses of his eyes glowing between the half-closed lids.
The sound of the waves was even lazier, feebler, than at noon.
But the light hadn’t changed; it was pounding as fiercely as ever on the long stretch of sand that ended at the rock.
For two hours the sun seemed to have made no progress; becalmed in a sea of molten steel.
Far out on the horizon a steamer was passing; I could just make out from the corner of an eye the small black moving patch, while I kept my gaze fixed on the Arab.
It struck me that all I had to do was to turn, walk away, and think no more about it.
But the whole beach, pulsing with heat, was pressing on my back.
I took some steps toward the stream.
The Arab didn’t move.
After all, there was still some distance between us.
Perhaps because of the shadow on his face, he seemed to be grinning at me.
I waited.
The heat was beginning to scorch my cheeks; beads of sweat were gathering in my eyebrows.
It was just the same sort of heat as at my mother’s funeral, and I had the same disagreeable sensations—especially in my forehead, where all the veins seemed to be bursting through the skin.
I couldn’t stand it any longer, and took another step forward.
I knew it was a fool thing to do; I wouldn’t get out of the sun by moving on a yard or so.
But I took that step, just one step, forward.
And then the Arab drew his knife and held it up toward me, athwart the sunlight.
A shaft of light shot upward from the steel, and I felt as if a long, thin blade transfixed my forehead.
At the same moment all the sweat that had accumulated in my eyebrows splashed down on my eyelids, covering them with a warm film of moisture.
Beneath a veil of brine and tears my eyes were blinded; I was conscious only of the cymbals of the sun clashing on my skull, and, less distinctly, of the keen blade of light flashing up from the knife, scarring my eyelashes, and gouging into my eyeballs.
Then everything began to reel before my eyes, a fiery gust came from the sea, while the sky cracked in two, from end to end, and a great sheet of flame poured down through the rift.
Every nerve in my body was a steel spring, and my grip closed on the revolver.
The trigger gave, and the smooth underbelly of the butt jogged my palm. And so, with that crisp, whipcrack sound, it all began.
I shook off my sweat and the clinging veil of light.
I knew I’d shattered the balance of the day, the spacious calm of this beach on which I had been happy.
But I fired four shots more into the inert body, on which they left no visible trace.
And each successive shot was another loud, fateful rap on the door of my undoing.
Part Two
I
I was questioned several times immediately after my arrest.
But they were all formal examinations, as to my identity and so forth.
At the first of these, which took place at the police station, nobody seemed to have much interest in the case.
However, when I was brought before the examining magistrate a week later, I noticed that he eyed me with distinct curiosity.
Like the others, he began by asking my name, address, and occupation, the date and place of my birth.
Then he inquired if I had chosen a lawyer to defend me.
I answered, “No,” I hadn’t thought about it, and asked him if it was really necessary for me to have one.
“Why do you ask that?” he said.
I replied that I regarded my case as very simple.
He smiled.
“Well, it may seem so to you.
But we’ve got to abide by the law, and, if you don’t engage a lawyer, the court will have to appoint one for you.”
It struck me as an excellent arrangement that the authorities should see to details of this kind, and I told him so.
He nodded, and agreed that the Code was all that could be desired.
At first I didn’t take him quite seriously.
The room in which he interviewed me was much like an ordinary sitting room, with curtained windows, and a single lamp standing on the desk. Its light fell on the armchair in which he’d had me sit, while his own face stayed in shadow.