Fellow Travelers

by Thomas Mallon

Somerset Maugham? Fuller wondered. Was the interrogator expected to detect a tribal affinity between author and reader? Was it to be discerned in too much mimicry, a slightly excessive archness or lyricism in the tone of the recitation? Just as, presumably, too light a step in crossing the room might be added to his own too-expensive clothes in the bill of fairy particulars being drawn up against him? “Mr. Fuller, I’m going to ask you to take a lie-detector test.” Fuller looked around but saw no machine. There was also no door leading to any Room M306. There was, however, the kind of curtained screen one found in a doctor’s office, and it turned out that Traband’s assistant had been sitting behind it, beside an apparatus, all along. Fuller was instructed to open his shirt and roll up his right sleeve. Once he did, the sensors were applied. “Mr. Fuller,” asked Traband, “have you ever given or received presents of a romantic nature to or from another man?” With thanks to Hawkins Fuller. (I got the job. You’re wonderful.) “No.”