The trouble is, I said, I don’t have anywhere to keep it. In your room, he said, as if it were obvious. They’d find it, I said. Someone would find it. Why? he asked, as if he really didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t. It wasn’t the first time he gave evidence of being truly ignorant of the real conditions under which we lived. They look, I said. They look in all our rooms. What for? he said. I think I lost control then, a little. Razor blades, I said. Books, writing, black-market stuff. All the things we aren’t supposed to have. Jesus Christ, you ought to know. My voice was angrier than I’d
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