between the pumps. He saw them as an apt legacy of humanity: monoliths for a future with neither gasoline nor cars, totemic remnants of a culture which had forged its own eclipse. The fugitives’ car merged into the horizon, which quickly regained its faded consistency.
The first thing that surprised him when he walked into the self-service store was its tidiness, the almost prophylactic atmosphere which reigned inside. The metal shelves, gleaming beneath buzzing lamps—his sense of smell assured him that all dust had been completely eradicated—displayed their products with an order bordering on monomania, making him think of ads, of the set for a commercial about to be filmed; from one moment to the next a man might burst in, smiling from ear to ear, with a Hopperesque vest and unleashing a string of discounts and promotions.
He wandered between the shelves, searching for some trace of the fugitives—barely even a can of Campbell’s soup which he picked up and put back in its place—when his ear detected a rustling he had previously overlooked: the rubbing of fabric against a metallic surface. He crossed the labyrinth of canned goods and discovered that his imagination had not deceived him this time; standing next to the cash register at the entrance to the store, a man wearing a vest and round wire-rimmed glasses was obsessively cleaning the counter, absorbed in the cloth which traced concentric circles, the stains which he scraped at with a fingernail he then sucked, only to resume his labor. Circles and fingernail, pause, circles and fingernail—and so on until infinity, the inexorable ritual of cleanliness.
In the operating-room light of the store, the clerk shone as if they had just finished painting him, as if he had only recently emerged from a fresh canvas. Who, he thought, could have forced the man to clean forever and ever under these surgical lamps? He imagined Hopper’s painting, the empty space the escaped figure would leave, the bewilderment on the face of the spectator who would make the discovery, the newspaper headlines: “Escape in the Art World,” “Hopperesque Creature Flees.” Who would fill that hole, what would the reward be for reporting the figure’s whereabouts?
He cleared his throat and spoke to the clerk:
“How are you . . . ? Good morning.”
In the silence that followed, the rubbing of the cloth seemed scandalous. Circles and fingernail, pause, circles and fingernail. The man’s blood flowed with astonishing calm, immutable. Cold blood, he thought. The blood of waiting. No relation whatsoever to the warmth of fear.
“How are you?” he repeated. “How’s everything going? I saw that some guys . . .”
He stopped himself when he noticed the gun resting on the counter, half hidden by the cash register, and that the man moved only to continue cleaning. Circles and fingernail. Pause. Circles and fingernail.
“Excuse me,” he insisted. “Are you all right?”
Without looking up or interrupting his work, the man finally spoke. His voice was, in fact, sharp—a fingernail tracing circles on glass.
“Take whatever you need,” he said. “I only ask that you don’t make any mess.” He paused and added: “Those fellows did as they were told, and they had knives. I told them that it had taken me hours to arrange the store, that they should take whatever they wanted. Even in shelters you have to eat, they said. I know that, I said, why? We don’t have anything to pay with, they said. I know that, I said, I don’t give a damn, take what you want and get the hell out of here. You aren’t coming with us? they said. I can’t, I said, I haven’t finished cleaning.” Another pause while he brought a fingernail to his mouth, and then, between his teeth: “I’ll never finish . . . There’s so much dirt . . .”
“And what do you want that for?” he said, pointing to the gun as he approached the counter.
As if an electrical charge had run through him, the man raised his eyes—two exhausted, reddened spheres where the spectacle of absence was reflected clearly. The rhythm of his blood continued, unchanging.
“What do I want it for . . . ?” he repeated, for himself more than anything. He let go of the cloth and began to caress the butt of the gun like a sleepwalker. “What do you think? To open the door when I finish cleaning . . . What a dumb question.”
“The door . . . ?”
“My brains, all right, so you’ll understand me.” The man snorted and