THEY’VE taken an anarchic, devious route. For the police, following Alex would be the easiest way of locating his brother, so they’ve most probably assigned someone to tail him. He has to get to the apartment on Granada Street as soon as possible. It’s the only thing he can do. As he walks, he tries to think with the same focused clarity expressed by his long strides, but the presence of his companion makes it impossible for Alex to concentrate on his predicament. He knows that sometimes, as he walks down the street, he talks aloud. It helps him see what he’s going to do next. Maybe a deep urge to avoid such knowledge is the reason why he’s having such a hard time focusing on the setting and situation he’s in. Unlike his brother, Alex orders the world by verbalizing it. His lips move, but he makes an effort to keep his words inaudible. “You’re talking to yourself, my friend.” “I know. I’m fucked up.” In Alex’s mind, the idea that he’s going to confide in Allawi sooner or later is gaining strength, even though he’s not very convinced such a step is advisable.
