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The young man switched off the light and drew the dirty curtain to block any illumination from outside. Looking around, he decided the room was dark enough to force anyone in it to grope around. But to achieve the pitch black he desired, he put on his dark glasses, nodding his satisfaction. That was how he wanted the world to be, as it was before God said, “Let there be light”—a formless place where brutality, wickedness, and injustice reigned. He closed his eyes behind the glasses and allowed himself a mental picture of people young and old, weak and strong, innocent and guilty, stupefied by repeated blows, screaming and crying in his beloved darkness. Only the smart ones would survive.
He sat on a worn-out gilt chair in the center of his dusty, empty room, staring into an unseen future, weighing the possibility of what was echoing in his mind. “I can make you a motherfuckin’ millionaire in, eh . . . months, six at most.” A dark part of his mind said it wasn’t possible; the even darker part said it was. A man he’d met by chance, who’d claimed to be his biological father, gave him that assurance.
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It was past 11 p.m. and the entire area was so silent that after some few minutes’ walk, the noise of rock music from the casino could still be heard faintly, though the distant voices of those therein had long faded.
Walking with long strides, Judas, at intervals, craned his neck sideways to see how the other was faring. At a certain junction, he leaned on an oak tree to have a good squint at a lone bungalow under the shade of another stand of trees a few kilometers away. That was his house. One would have to travel a great distance before another building was sighted. He was used to checking his house from afar, to be sure there was no police officer disguised as a town planner loitering with measuring equipment. He lowered his head and screwed his eyes more carefully, to Kane’s amazement.
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