The Committee

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I arrived at the Committee's headquarters at 8:30 A.M., half an hour before my scheduled appointment. I had no difficulty finding the room reserved for interviews, just off a quiet, dimly lit side passage. An old man in a clean yellow jacket stood before the door. His features radiated the serenity that masks the faces of those who, having found themselves at the end of the road, surrender and retreat from the hubbub of life and the struggle to ride out its trials and tribulations.

The porter let slip that the Committee doesn't usually convene before 10 o'clock. This was par for the course. It annoyed me; I regretted having been punctual, crawling out of bed at the crack of dawn, without enjoying a full night's sleep.

The porter had the only seat, so I stood near him and set my Samsonite briefcase on the floor. I offered him a cigarette and lit one for myself. My heart beat violently the whole time, even though I tried to pull myself together and control my nerves. I kept telling myself that my confusion would lose me the opportunity they were granting me. I simply would not be able to concentrate, although I would desperately need that ability during the upcoming interview.

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