“And the box man is a Christian fanatic,” said the clerk. “You better watch out, Remal.”

“I am.”

“This is ridiculous,” said the captain. “I want…”

“You are interrupting Remal,” said the clerk. “You were interrupting one of his silences.”

In a way, thought the captain, this Arab is taking a lot from the clerk.

“There were remarkable arrangements for a long journey,” said Remal. “A great number of water canisters strapped to the side of the coffin…”

“Can’t you say box?”

“Of course, Whitfield. And a double wall filled with small packets of this food, this compressed food the American soldiers used to carry.”

“You think he’s an American?” asked the captain.

“Of course. Didn’t you load him in New York?”

The captain put his glass down on the floor and when he sat up again he looked angry.

“I got papers which say so and I got a box which looks like it. That’s all I know. The way it turns out, the damnable thing did not go through customs, my crew didn’t see the damnable thing coming on…”

“Didn’t they load it?”

“Crew doesn’t load. Longshoremen do the loading.”

“Ah. And port of origin and destination, I’m told, they are both the same. Americans do things like that, don’t they, Whitfield?” asked the mayor. “Perhaps a stunt.”

“A Christian-fanatic stunt,” said the clerk. He took water into his hands and dribbled it over his head. “I name thee Whitfield,” he murmured.

“As fanatics,” said Remal, “we would be more consequential.”

“Bathe in the blood of the lamb, not water.”

“I beg your pardon?”

I’ll get drunk too, thought the captain. That might be the best thing. But his glass was empty and he did not want to get up and squeak the bed.

“Yes,” Remal continued. “In the coffin, there were also those pills, to make the fanaticism more bearable.”