Besides, he thought, handing the cop his license, this isn’t Albania, you know. It may not be in our zone of perception, but it’s definitely not Albania.
At the same moment Peter looked in the compartment where he kept business cards and saw his license. He couldn’t remember putting it in there—why in the name of God would he have?—but there it was. In the photograph he looked not like an assistant professor of English at NYU but an unemployed petty laborer (and possible serial killer). Yet it was him, recognizably him, and he felt his spirits lift. They had their papers, God was in his heaven, all was right with the world.
Besides, he thought, handing the cop his license, this isn’t Albania, you know. It may not be in our zone of perception, but it’s definitely not Albania.
