The agent lies flat on his stomach in front of the dark stone building. He measures the columns. The one on the left is exactly six centimeters shorter.
— Have you found the entrance, or are you just choosing a way to die? a voice asks from above.
The agent turns abruptly. Zelqudreth flips the wild boar bristle shaving brush from one hand to the other, dry and coarse.
— What I'm looking for isn't on any map, the agent says.
— Because it's not a building, replies Zelqudreth. I just sharpened my razor. Do you smell the old soap?
He tosses the brush. When the agent catches it, the stiff bristles pierce the skin of his palm. From the wound, a black, gelatinous fungus begins to grow.
— Step in. I'll shave you.
The agent finds himself already in the chair. He looks into the mirror. In the lower left corner, there is a flaw.
— I don't know why I came, the client says.
— You've carried these secrets for too long, Zelqudreth says.
He doesn't wait for a response. He soaks the brush in lukewarm water. The boar bristles swell slightly, as if breathing.
— My wife says I look tired, murmurs the client.
Zelqudreth squeezes the brush. The foam drops into the sink with a hoarse sound.
— You don't sleep well.
— Do you feel the atmospheric pressure? Zelqudreth asks.
He spreads the foam over the client's cheeks. Slow movements. Perfect circle. Neck. Under the jaw. The pulse twitches beneath his fingers.
— Have you been here before? Zelqudreth asks.
— Yes… some time ago. I've done things since then. I don't know if I can say I'm sorry.
— Everyone has been here. No justification is needed for things already done.
The first pass of the blade is flawless. The foam falls. The second pass nears a vein.
The razor stops precisely above the artery.
— You carry chronic guilt here, under your jaw, Zelqudreth says. Can you feel it? The pulse never lies.
The client swallows hard.
— What is there? The mirror has a mark in the lower left. Only ghosts are scared when the lights go out. The light curves. All the shadows stare directly at me, but it doesn't affect me. I don't see myself through their blind, silent eyes. I row in a boat made of water. And then it happens: the heavens open, and an angel descends and looks at me. Then the angel turns and leaves, leaving a trail of salt that shows how far it stretches across the ocean. While the devil dances with the moon, the rain falls on the other side of the ocean. A phone call woke me in the morning. It was the police. My friend, the former captain of the New York department, Draathen Miller, entered a dark room and was killed. Then I knew I was a dead man.
Zelqudreth smiles.
— From now on, you will be better.