Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Dana Grigorcea

can give a donation,” I reply. He turns back around. “The boss said someone could steal it from there.” The echo of our voices breaks free for a moment under the high glass dome. I roll the animal-rights group’s donation box back into the entrance hall, as the security guard repeats “We’re not supposed to do that” a couple of times. It’s clear he’s trying to convey that my action can be undone without him having to lay a finger on me or the donation box. He jams his fists into his pants pockets, and when that doesn’t work he sticks his foot out in front of the donation-box wheels, but then draws it back. “Just do that tomorrow, when the boss is here.” “The boss, or the Director?” my voice thunders up into the glass dome. We laugh. And that’s when we first notice the old man beside us. The man tosses one of those cheap, reusable nylon bags between us. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a bank robbery!” He looks like he stepped straight out of a film noir, wearing a hat and trenchcoat, with a revolver bulging in his left pocket. He really looks a lot like an actor who recently died—his name escapes me, but he was a legend—a b-movie actor, actually, whose burial sparked

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